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ESIDE 


Urn 


* 

EDWARD    B  CLARK 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


BIRDS  OF   LAKESIDE  AND 
PRAIRIE 


PROTHONOTARY  WARBLER. 


BIRDS  OF  LAKESIDE 
AND  PRAIRIE 


EDWARD    B.    CLARK 


WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 


A.  W.  MUMFORD,  PUBLISHER 

CHICAGO       NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1901 
BY  A.  W.  MUMFORD 


w 


TO   MY   WIFE 

WITHOUT    WHOSE    GENTLE    PERSUASION 

THIS    BOOK 
HAD    NEVER    BEEN    WRITTEN 


M345950 


PREFACE 


If  the  perusal  of  this  little  volume  gives  the  reader  one 
tithe  of  the  pleasure  which  the  gathering  of  the  material 
gave  the  writer,  the  printing  of  the  pages  will  not  have 
been  in  vain.  The  lakesides  and  prairies  of  the  Middle 
West  are  rich  in  bird  life.  The  opera  glass  is  a  much  more 
satisfactory  field  companion  than  the  shot  gun. 

Parts  of  a  few  of  the  chapters  have  appeared  in  Outing 
of  New  York;  Birds  and  Nature,  the  Tribune,  the  Post,  and 
the  Record-Herald  of  Chicago.  My  thanks  are  due  to  the 
Managing  Editors  of  these  publications  for  permission  to 
reprint  such  portions  of  the  articles  as  I  desired. 

EDWARD  B.  CLARK. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I  BIRDS  OF  A  SMOKY  CITY       ...  9 

II  THE  SONGSTERS  OF  THE  SKOKIE  -  -     J9 

III  THROUGH  THE  LOST  RIVER  VALLEY  -  29 

IV  IN  SOUTHERN  HOOSIER  HILLS      -  •     39 
V  IN  WINTER  FIELDS  5° 

VI  ON  THE  TRAIL  OF  POKAGON  -     6o 

VII  SOME  ODD  BITS  OF  BIRD  LIFE  •              68 

VIII  IN  GOD'S  ACRE  -     78 

IX  WHERE  THE  BLACK  TERN  BUILDS  *              87 

X  COMEDY  AND  TRAGEDY  -  *                 -     97 

XI  SPRING  ON  THE  KANKAKEE   -  106 

XII  "FROM  HAUNTS  OF  COOT  AND  HERN"  -  116 

XIII  THE  REACHES  OF  THE  PRAIRIE  •  -            129 

XIV  G.  N.  SHRIKE,  BUTCHER                  -  -  -  *39 


ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  COLOR 


PAGE 

PROTHONOTARY  WARBLER                  :»-..            /-  Frontispiece 

CERULEAN  WARBLER               '.--."             -  -                •       17 

DICKCISSEL       -              •'•'•.             -                -  -               27 

TUFTED  TITMOUSE                  .  •                 -  ;--               •       38 

RED-BELLIED  WOODPECKER             -                -  ~-               49 

GOLD  FINCH                             *                -  -                *       59 

WHITE-BREASTED  NUTHATCH           -  67 

BLACK  AND  WHITE  WARBLER                  *  .  -                 -       77 

EVENING  GROSBEAK         -                -  86 

LOGGERHEAD  SHRIKE               •                -  _  -                       96 

RED-EYED  VIREO              ....  I05 

WARBLING  VIREO     *             /-                -  -                -     115 

MARYLAND  YELLOW-THROAT           -                 -  •              119 

HOUSE  WREN           -                              :^-  -                 »     130 

BLACK-THROATED  BLUE  WARBLER                -  -  .            138 

GREAT  NORTHERN  SHRIKE      -                *•   ,  -                -     144 


CHAPTER  I 

BIRDS    OF   A   SMOKY   CITY 

The  birds'  true  homes  are  in  the  green  fields,  the  hedges, 
and  the  woodlands  of  the  country,  and  the  bird-student  is  fortu- 
nate whose  lines  are  cast  in  such  pleasant  places  throughout  the 
entire  year.  The  songsters,  however,  are  not  utterly  neglectful 
of  their  city  friends.  To  a  creature  whose  life  is  passed  in 
the  freshness  of  the  fields  or  in  the  fragrance  of  pine  forests, 
there  must  be  something  pitiful  in  the  condition  of  him  whose 
daily  round  is  one  of  grind  and  grime  and  noise. 

The  realist  may  frown  if  he  will,  yet  the  city-dwelling  bird- 
student  loves  to  think  that  it  is  some  touch  of  tenderness  that 
prompts  the  birds  in  spring  and  fall  to  turn  aside  from  the 
broader  migration  paths  to  brighten  with  color  and  song  the 
few  green  spots  in  the  great  bustling  towns.  No  one  who 
feels  a  desire  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  the  songsters  should 
be  kept  from  the  attempt  by  the  fact  that  he  lives  in  a  city 
and  has  few  opportunities  to  seek  the  country-side.  During 
certain  times  of  the  year  our  cities'  parks  are  rich  in  bird  life 
and  afford  full  opportunity  for  study. 

My  own  city  observations  of  birds  have  been  confined 
largely  to  Chicago.  No  place  could  seem  less  likely  to  be 
attractive  to  the  dainty  warbler  or  the  tuneful  white  throat 
than  this  city  with  its  shroud  of  smoke  and  its  ceaseless  clat- 
ter. Yet  it  is  doubtful  if  many  other  places  in  the  land,  of  like 
limited  area,  hold  as  much  bird  life  in  the  spring  months  as 
do  the  parks  of  this  sooty  city. 

9 


io         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

Many  journeys  in  fields  far  from  civilization,  and  holding 
a  dense  feathered  population,  have  never  succeeded  in  making 
me  forget  the  delights  and  surprises  of  my  first  bird-hunting 
trip  in  Lincoln  Park,  Chicago.  Although  hunting,  my  only 
weapon  was  an  opera-glass.  I  was  but  a  recently  added 
attendant  to  the  bird  train,  and  I  was  skeptical  of  songster 
possibilities  in  a  park  skirted  with  cable-car  lines  and  thronged 
seven  days  a  week  with  pleasure-seekers.  My  companion  had 
hunted  these  fields  aforetime,  and  said  that  we  surely  should 
see  something,  though  I  thought  the  outlook  was  as  cold  as 
the  day,  for  this  bird-seeking  trip  was  made  early  in  March 
before  winter  had  shown  the  least  disposition  to  let  go  his 


As  a  boy  I  had  gathered  some  bird-lore  in  a  sort  of  hap- 
hazard way,  and  when  on  that  March  morning  we  neared  the 
edge  of  the  south  pond  and  heard  a  rattling  cry,  I  exclaimed, 
"  Kingfisher!"  as  quickly  as  did  my  companion.  We  reached 
the  shore  just  in  time  to  see  a  belted  kingfisher,  the  halcyon 
of  the  ancients,  light  on  a  dead  limb  of  a  tree  on  Willow 
Island.  The  pond  was  ice-bound  throughout,  and  the  fish 
beneath  the  glittering  surface  were  safe  from  attack.  The 
wonder  was  how  the  kingfisher  in  this  uncongenial  clime 
could  escape  starvation.  The  cold  March  sunlight  showed 
his  fine  feathers  in  all  their  beauty.  He  had  sunk  his  head 
well  down  between  his  shoulders.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he 
must  be  cold,  and  that  he  was  wishing  mightily  he  could 
pull  his  feathered  topknot  down  over  his  ears  like  a  hood. 
Once  halcyon  darted  from  his  perching-place  and  poised  in 
the  air  over  the  ice,  as  it  is  his  custom  to  do  when  about  to 
strike  his  prey.  For  a  moment  I  actually  feared  that  the 
bird  was  deceived  by  a  bit  of  transparent  ice  through  which 


Birds  of  a  Smoky  City  n 

he  could  see  a  fish  and  was  about  to  dash  himself  against  the 
hard  surface  and  end  his  fishing  days  forever.  He  was  wiser 
than  we  knew,  however,  and  after  poising  for  a  while,  as 
though  it  were  only  to  exercise  his  wings,  he  flew  back  to  his 
dead-limb  perch. 

Just  then  we  heard  the  note  of  a  shrike.  The  bird  was 
on  his  watch-tower  at  the  tiptop  of  an  elm.  He  seemed  to 
be  taking  something  of  an  interest  in  the  kingfisher.  It  was 
the  great  northern  shrike,  or  butcher-bird,  and  it  is  barely 
possible — his  summer  range  being  in  the  far  North — that 
never  before  had  he  met  one  of  the  tribe  to  which  belonged 
the  belted  knight  below.  Finally  the  shrike  flew  to  the  wil- 
low and  took  a  place  just  above  the  kingfisher's  head.  The 
shrike  is  a  bird  of  prey,  but  he  never  strikes  quarry  of  the 
fisher's  size.  Halcyon  finally  became  a  little  restive  under 
the  gaze  of  his  visitor,  who  had  cocked  his  head  on  one  side 
and  was  staring  with  all  his  might.  The  shrike  dropped  to  a 
lower  limb.  He  was  within  a  foot  of  the  kingfisher's  head. 
This  was  too  much  of  an  impertinence,  and  the  bigger  bird 
left  his  perch,  but  as  he  did  so  he  sprang  that  watchman's 
rattle  of  his  full  in  the  face  of  the  shrike.  That  weird  cry  of 
the  waterside  is  enough  to  unsettle  even  stronger  nerves  than 
those  of  a  butcher,  and  the  frightened  shrike  turned  tail  and 
fled.  The  kingfisher,  who  probably  had  noted  the  effect  of 
his  voice,  made  for  the  northern  end  of  the  pond,  twisting 
and  retwisting  his  rattle  in  a  sort  of  glee  as  he  scurried  along. 

Into  Lincoln  Park  on  that  March  morning  had  come  the 
first  song  sparrow  of  the  year.  There  is  never  a  daylight 
hour  in  all  the  seasons  when  this  little  fellow,  conscious  of  the 
melody  within  him,  does  not  seem  willing  to  give  it  voice. 
The  song  sparrow  is  no  silk-and-satin  singer.  He  comes  into 


12         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

the  scene  in  plain  homespun,  but  the  listener  loses  all  thought 
of  the  garb  in  the  sweetness  of  the  strain. 

The  sparrow's  song  was  marred  by  a  harsh  note  that  came 
from  the  branches  of  the  only  pine  tree  that  then  stood  on 
the  little  peninsula  which  runs  from  the  north  into  the  park 
pond.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  bronzed  grackle.  This  bird, 
better  known  as  the  crow  blackbird,  is  sable  enough  in  color 
on  a  dark  day,  but  when  the  sun  strikes  him  his  garb  is  of 
beaten  gold  and  Tyrian  purple.  We  found  the  grackle,  and 
found  him  all  alone.  That  day  was  the  first  time  of  meeting 
with  this  blackbird  individual  whose  acquaintance  I  enjoyed 
I  firmly  believe  for  five  successive  years.  Crow  blackbirds 
are  fond  of  company  and  it  is  seldom  that  you  find  one  sepa- 
rated from  its  fellows.  This  Lincoln  Park  bird,  a  male  in  fine 
plumage,  stayed  about  the  pond  and  the  animal  house  for  ten 
days  before  any  of  his  kindred  from  the  south  joined  him. 
He  found  the  tame  ducks'  quarters  a  splendid  foraging-place, 
and  there  he  picked  up  every  day  much  more  than  his  share 
of  corn.  Finally,  when  the  bird  was  joined  by  his  comrades, 
I  of  course  was  unable  to  tell  him  from  his  mates,  but  the 
next  year  more  than  a  week  before  any  other  grackles  were  to 
be  seen,  a  single  male  appeared  at  the  park  and  at  once  sought 
out  the  ducks'  corn-pit.  The  same  thing  happened  the  three 
succeeding  springs,  and  there  never  has  been  a  doubt  in  my 
mind  that  it  was  the  same  bird  whom  remembrance  of  the  fat 
feeding-grounds  had  tempted  to  a  northern  flight  long  before 
others  of  his  kind. 

An  inquiry  of  one  of  the  officials  on  the  day  of  my  first 
Chicago  acquaintance  with  the  grackle  brought  the  informa- 
tion that  the  blackbirds  were  not  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the 
park.  If  this  were  true,  that  year  marked  the  first  appearance 


Birds  of  a  Smoky  City  13 

of  the  grackles  in  Lincoln  Park,  but  I  have  long  since  ceased 
to  place  any  confidence  in  the  powers  of  observation  of  the 
ordinary  park  guardian.  One  morning  when  I  had  seen  and 
identified  within  the  limits  of  the  pleasure-ground  thirty-eight 
varieties  of  native  wild  birds,  I  was  informed  by  a  policeman, 
who  said  he  had  seen  five  years  of  service  in  the  same  place, 
that  in  all  that  time  there  had  been  nothing  wearing  feathers 
in  evidence  except  English  sparrows. 

Before  that  first  March  day  trip  was  ended  we  saw  within 
the  Lincoln  Park  limits  a  few  robins  and  bluebirds,  and  great 
numbers  of  juncoes  and  fox  sparrows.  The  white-breasted 
nuthatches  performed  their  gymnastic  feats  on  every  third 
tree  trunk.  One  of  the  lessons  for  beginners  in  bird-study  to 
learn  from  this  bleak  outing — and  there  was  one  beginner  who 
learned  it  well — is,  that  no  matter  how  forbidding  weather 
conditions  may  be,  there  are  always  surprises  in  store  for  him 
who  seeks  the  birds  in  their  haunts. 

The  presence  of  ponds  in  all  the  larger  parks  of  our  cities 
makes  these  breathing  places  of  the  people  especially  attract- 
ive to  the  birds.  To  the  ponds  the  city  dweller  owes  it 
largely  that  the  variety  as  well  as  the  number  of  the  feath- 
ered visitors  is  so  great.  During  the  fullness  of  the  tide  of 
migration  the  bird  visitors  are  not  limited  to  the  smaller  land 
species.  In  the  early  morning  hours  the  wild  ducks  are  to  be 
found  upon  the  waters,  plovers  and  sand-pipers  run  along  the 
shores,  herons  perch  upon  tree  branches  in  secluded  places, 
and  bitterns  rest  in  the  sedge  grasses.  In  Lincoln  Park  on 
the  same  day  I  saw  the  ruby-throated  humming  bird  and  the 
great  bald  eagle.  The  eagle  was  not  one  of  the  forlornly 
feathered  and  unhappy  looking  prisoners  in  the  big  gilded 
cage,  but  a  great  soaring  bird  whose  birthright  was  freedom. 


14         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

Between  these  size  extremes  of  the  feathered  kingdom  there 
can  be  found  few  birds  that  do  not  on  some  April  or  Septem- 
ber day  find  their  way  into  Lincoln  Park. 

In  this  day  when  the  bullying  English  sparrow  is  abroad 
in  the  land,  it  hardly  seems  possible  that  it  can  be  the  same 
native  bird  individuals  that  drop  into  the  parks  year  by  year. 
If  the  same  birds  do  come  back,  they  must  have  either  short 
memories  or  spirits  forgiving  enough  to  rank  them  with  the 
saints.  The  sparrows  never  cease  their  persecutions.  At 
times  tragedies  result,  and  at  other  times  the  sparrows'  en- 
counters with  his  American  cousins  take  on  the  semblance  of 
broad  comedy.  One  spring  morning,  just  at  sunrise,  I  saw  a 
bittern  drop  into  the  damp  grasses  along  the  edge  of  the 
south  Lincoln  Park  pond.  The  sparrows  discovered  the  big 
bog-trotter  as  soon  as  I  did.  They  weighed  down  the  willow 
branches  just  above  his  head,  and  were  all  talking  at  once  and 
at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  They  asked  the  bittern  what  he 
was  doing  there,  what  right  he  had  on  sacred  sparrow  soil, 
where  he  got  his  long  legs,  and  why  he  needed  a  bill  the  size 
of  a  plumber's.  They  questioned  him  and  jeered  at  him  for 
five  minutes,  but  he  answered  not  a  word.  Finally  the  stake- 
driver,  as  the  bittern  is  called  in  swamp  society,  became  tired 
of  the  noise  and  flew  to  the  little  willow-planted  island  in  the 
middle  of  the  pond.  A  small  bird  rarely  attacks  a  larger  one 
when  the  object  of  attack  is  at  rest.  On  the  ground  or  in  a 
tree  the  assaulted  one  can  readily  use  its  weapons  of  offense 
and  defense.  On  the  wing,  however,  it  is  a  different  matter. 
No  sooner  had  the  bittern  left  the  ground  in  lumbering  flight 
than  the  sparrows  descended  upon  him  in  a  cloud,  each  one 
pecking  the  hapless  visitor  in  passing.  Some  of  the  assailants 
fairly  rode  on  his  back  using  both  beak  and  claw  to  his  tor- 


Birds  of  a  Smoky  City  15 

ment  and  confusion.  When  the  bittern  reached  a  resting- 
place  at  the  island's  edge,  he  was  in  a  state  of  mind.  In  the 
broad  stretches  of  his  native  swamp  the  English  sparrow  was 
an  unknown  quantity.  There  were  swamp  sparrows  there  to 
be  sure,  but  they  were  an  American  product,  musical,  harm- 
less, and  good  fellows  withal;  surely  these  ill-mannered  crea- 
tures could  be  no  kin  of  theirs. 

Once  lighted,  the  bittern  turned  from  the  water  and  faced 
inland.  He  was  looking  squarely  into  the  eyes  of  a  score  of 
his  sparrow  persecutors.  He  took  one  comically  awkward 
step  forward  and  made  a  drive  with  his  powerful  beak  at  one 
of  his  tormentors.  The  blow  fell  far  short  of  the  mark,  but 
had  the  beak  been  a  foot  longer,  the  alert  sparrow  would  have 
been  out  of  range  before  that  sharp  battering  ram  could  strike 
home.  The  bittern  was  attended  by  a  train  of  sparrows  all 
the  day  long.  He  tried  every  part  of  the  south  pond's  banks. 
He  was  allowed  neither  to  eat  nor  to  rest.  I  saw  the  sparrow 
horde  still  harrying  the  bird  as  I  passed  the  place  at  sunset. 
The  next  day  the  visitor  had  disappeared,  and  I  hope  that  his 
night's  flight  landed  him  safely  among  the  marsh  wrens  and 
the  red-winged  blackbirds  of  the  swamp  stretches  which  he 
calls  his  home. 

Lincoln  Park,  Chicago,  has  become  known  as  the  highway 
of  the  warblers.  From  the  time  that  the  first  myrtle  bird 
appears  in  April  until  the  last  "Cape  May"  has  passed  north 
in  the  month  whose  name  it  bears,  the  park  is  a  rich  field  for 
the  study  of  this  most  interesting  family.  The  warbler, 
whether  you  find  it  in  Lincoln  Park  or  along  the  spring  flood- 
burdened  banks  of  the  Illinois  River,  has  a  beauty  and  a 
character  all  its  own.  There  are  bird-students  who  seek  other 
fields  of  study  for  other  birds,  but  in  the  full  tide  of  the 


1 6         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

warbler  migration  they  turn  their  steps  to  the  city's  parks. 
It  is  not  at  all  unusual  in  a  good  warbler  year  to  find  every 
park  tree  that  offers  a  food  supply  of  insects  bearing  a  burden 
of  these  little  creatures,  in  gold,  brown,  red,  yellow,  black, 
blue,  and  scarlet.  Some  of  them,  with  seemingly  barely 
feather  surface  enough  to  show  one  color,  are  attired  in 
almost  every  hue  known  to  the  eye  of  man. 

The  yellow  warblers  nest  by  scores  within  the  limits  of 
the  parks  of  all  Northern  cities.  I  found  the  nest  of  this  bird 
once  fastened  to  the  slender  stem  of  a  rose-bush  in  the  rose- 
garden  at  Jackson  Park,  Chicago.  It  was  not  more  than  three 
feet  from  the  ground,  and  at  the  edge  of  a  walk  upon  which 
passed  the  thousands  of  visitors  who  went  daily  to  enjoy  the 
bloom  of  the  flowers.  The  little  home  was  flanked  on  either 
side  by  a  great  blossom,  while  another  opened  its  petals  just 
above.  Within  the  space  of  a  few  cubic  inches  there  was  as 
much  of  beauty  as  it  is  the  province  of  this  world  to  hold 
anywhere  within  like  restricted  limits.  The  people  poked 
inquisitively  into  the  warblers'  housekeeping,  but  the  birds  paid 
little  heed,  though  their  hearts  probably  fluttered  with  an 
unutterable  fear.  The  mother  bird  fed  the  little  ones  while 
trespassing  human  beings  lifted  the  red  rose  roof  to  look  into 
the  nest.  Though  disaster  was  feared,  the  devoted  parents 
finally  successfully  led  the  young  forth  for  their  first  flight  in 
life. 

The  bluebirds,  the  scarlet  tanagers,  the  cerulean  warblers, 
the  Baltimore  orioles,  the  robins,  nearly  the  whole  tribe  of 
native  sparrows,  the  woodpeckers,  and  not  infrequently  the 
hawks  and  the  owls,  find  rest  and  food  within  sound  of  the 
clanging  bells  of  surface  cars  and  of  the  rumble  of  the  wheels 
of  elevated  roads.  I  once  flushed  a  woodcock  at  the  base  of 


CERULEAN  WARBLER. 


Birds  of  a  Smoky  City  17 

the  Lincoln  Park  statue  of  the  Indian  pony  and  rider,  and  for 
three  weeks  of  one  spring  month  a  wild  wood  duck  rested  on 
the  waters  of  a  pond  in  the  park  and  showed  its  brilliant 
plumage  to  thousands  of  visitors. 

It  is  to  Lincoln  Park  that  I  owe  the  first  chance  since  boy- 
hood of  seeing  a  living  passenger  pigeon.  There  are  men  of 
middle  age  to-day  who  remember  when  the  flocks  of  wild 
pigeons  darkened  the  sun,  and  when  every  gun  in  the  land 
brought  down  its  share,  and  more  than  its  share,  of  the  crea- 
tures that  flew  low  and  blindly  to  their  destruction.  There 
were  so  many  millions  of  the  birds  forty  years  ago  that  no 
one  dreamed  that  the  day  would  come  within  a  generation 
when  a  single  pigeon  sitting  on  a  tree  in  a  city  park  might 
be  thought  to  be  the  last  of  its  race.  No  satisfactory  expla- 
nation has  ever  been  given  for  the  disappearance  of  the  pas- 
senger pigeon.  To-day  it  is  well-nigh  as  rare  as  the  great 
auk,  and  the  reported  occurrence  of  one  of  the  birds  in  any 
part  of  the  country  is  a  matter  of  scientific  interest. 

The  pigeon  that  I  met  on  that  April  morning  in  the  year 
1894,  in  Lincoln  Park,  was  perched  on  the  limb  of  a  soft 
maple  and  was  facing  the  rising  sun.  It  was  a  male  bird  in 
perfect  plumage.  There  were  no  trees  between  him  and  the 
lake  to  break  the  sun's  rays  from  his  breast.  Every  feather 
shone,  and  the  bird's  neck  was  gem-like  in  its  brilliancy. 
Tennyson  needed  no  special  poetic  license  to  write  of  the 
"Burnished  dove."  I  watched  the  pigeon  through  a  glass 
for  fully  ten  minutes.  A  park  loiterer  approached  and  said 
he  wished  that  he  had  a  gun ;  that  it  was  the  first  wild  pigeon 
he  had  seen  in  thirty  years.  That  man  had  no  soul  above 
pigeon  pie. 

A  city  park  is  not  the  safest  resting-place  for  a  creature 


1 8         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

upon  whom  may  depend  the  saving  of  a  race  from  extinction. 
I  flushed  the  pigeon,  hoping  that  it  would  direct  its  flight 
northward,  and  not  rest  until  it  had  passed  beyond  the  limits 
of  boys  with  slingshots  and  stones.  It  left  its  perch,  but  to 
my  dismay  it  shaped  its  course  straight  toward  the  heart  of 
the  smoky  city.  Good  wishes  followed  its  arrowy  flight,  but 
my  fear  is  that  the  bird's  life  history  is  closed  with  this  recital. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    SONGSTERS    OF    THE    SKOKIE 

North  of  the  city  of  Chicago,  and  a  mile  inland  from  the 
shore  of  Lake  Michigan,  lie  the  stretches  of  the  Skokie 
swamp.  This  unreclaimed  marshland  is  of  great  extent,  and 
in  places  it  has  a  heavy  fringe  of  scrub-oak,  thick  brush,  and 
tangled  brier.  The  bluffs  of  the  lake  shore  rise  vertically  to 
the  height  of  one  hundred  feet.  A  table-land  extends  for 
some  distance  westward,  and  then  slopes  gently  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  sluggish  stream  which  stretches  its  length  along 
through  the  heart  of  the  swamp.  Still  farther  west  the  land 
is  low  and  well  cultivated.  Standing  upon  the  table-land  at 
the  east  one  looks  far  off  to  a  heavy  line  of  timber  which 
skirts  the  Desplaines  River  and  marks  the  limit  of  vision.  By 
a  sort  of  an  optical  illusion  the  woods  of  the  Desplaines  and 
the  adjacent  land  seem  to  stand  much  higher  than  the  country 
which  intervenes.  The  wjiole  effect  of  the  view  is  that  of  a 
valley,  and  I  know  of  no  other  place  in  Illinois  where  such  an 
adequate  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  character  of  the  land- 
scapes which  have  made  some  of  the  Eastern  valleys  famous. 

There  is  a  wealth  of  bird  life  in  the  region  of  the  Skokie. 
The  diversified  nature  of  the  country  makes  possible  the 
finding  of  many  varieties  of  the  feathered  kind.  I  have 
tramped  the  Skokie  at  all  seasons  and  always  with  profit. 
The  roads  that  lead  from  the  lake  westward  through  swamp 
and  meadow  are  in  the  springtime  musical  with  the  singing  of 
birds.  One  particular  road  I  have  in  mind  because  of  the 


20         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

many  friends  that  I  have  made  along  its  pleasant  way.  It  is 
rarely  used,  and  at  its  beginning  in  the  town  of  Highland 
Park  it  is  but  little  more  than  a  tree-shadowed  lane.  The 
orioles  build  in  the  swaying  elm-boughs  that  droop  above 
the  fences,  and  many  robins  place  their  mud  houses  in  the 
maples  along  the  beginning  of  the  way. 

A  tragedy  is  perhaps  not  an  auspicious  thing  with  which 
to  begin  a  day's  outing.  The  bird-student,  however,  must 
harden  himself  to  endure  the  sight  of  the  tragic,  or  else  it  were 
better  to  put  the  field-glass  in  its  case  and  forego  the  study. 
There  is  perhaps  something  of  the  savage  still  left  in  us,  and 
I  am  free  to  confess  that  tragedies  are  not  altogether  uninter- 
esting things.  I  am  likewise  free  to  confess  that  I  have  a 
sort  of  a  "sneaking  admiration"  for  the  hawk  family.  They 
are  freebooters  and  murderers,  but  there  is  something  in  the 
lives  of  these  birds  that  is  typical  of  the  wildness  of  the  woods 
and  the  freedom  of  the  fields.  There  is  a  charm  about  their 
very  boldness,  and  that  landscape  lacks  something  which  does 
not  have  occasionally  the  living  interest  which  is  added  by  a 
hawk  beating  the  covers  to  startle  its  cowering  quarry  into 
flight. 

One  May  morning,  before  the  sun  was  showing  above  the 
bluff,  I  started  westward  along  this  favorite  Skokie  road. 
Just  beyond  the  elms  and  the  maples  at  the  road's  beginning 
lie  some  open  cultivated  fields  with  a  barn  and  outbuildings 
at  their  western  border.  One  of  the  great  barns  was  the 
home  of  scores  of  domestic  pigeons,  which  fed  the  greater 
part  of  the  day  in  the  fields.  I  afterward  learned  that  the 
birds  played  havoc  with  the  newly  planted  seeds.  A  detached 
flock  of  the  pigeons  was  foraging  in  the  first  field  not  more 
than  twenty  yards  from  the  fence.  I  stood  leaning  on  the 


The  Songsters  of  the  Skokie          21 

topmost  rail  and  watched  the  birds  for  a  few  minutes.  They 
paid  no  attention  to  me,  but  suddenly  with  a  whir  they  rose 
and  went  in  headlong  flight  toward  the  barn.  A  shadow 
swept  by  me.  I  looked  up,  and  not  thirty  feet  above  a  hawk 
was  flying  by  like  an  arrow.  I  was  to  witness  a  bit  of  fal- 
conry. The  pursuer  gained  on  the  pigeons,  and  just  before 
they  had  reached  the  farm-house  the  hawk  struck  the  last 
scurrying  bird  and  bore  it  to  earth.  There  is  generally  a  shot- 
gun at  hand  for  use  when  a  hawk  dares  to  approach  a  farm- 
house. I  fully  expected  to  hear  a  report,  and  to  have  the 
privilege,  if  it  may  be  counted  one,  of  looking  at  a  dead  bird 
of  prey,  but  no  report  came.  I  afterward  found  out  that  no 
one  but  myself  saw  the  tragedy,  and  that  had  the  act  been 
seen  it  is  doubtful  if  there  would  have  been  any  shot-gun 
interference.  A  farm-hand  said  that  the  pigeons  had  pulled 
up  all  the  peas  and  had  eaten  much  more  than  their  share  of 
the  planted  corn,  and  that  a  few  pigeons  less  would  be  no 
loss.  A  few  days  later  the  farmer  took  a  hand  at  pigeon 
killing  himself,  and  saved  his  crops  by  sacrificing  his  birds. 
I  never  knew  what  species  of  hawk  it  was  that  had  a  pigeon 
breakfast  so  early  that  morning.  It  was  one  of  the  smaller 
kinds,  and  with  that  knowledge  I  was  forced  to  be  content. 

In  the  Skokie  marsh  there  are  two  distinct  sloughs. 
Locally  this  word  is  pronounced  "slews."  In  the  middle  of 
each  there  is  a  thread  of  open  water,  which  in  the  early  spring 
is  a  stream  of  some  magnitude.  The  sloughs  are  the  homes 
of  many  red-winged  blackbirds.  In  the  last  two  or  three 
years,  however,  the  blackbirds  have  decreased  greatly  in 
numbers,  though  I  am  at  a  loss  to  find  a  reason.  The  lush 
grasses  and  the  flags  offer  as  secure  a  retreat  as  before,  and 
civilization  has  as  yet  encroached  but  little  upon  the  red- 


22         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

wing's  retreat.  This  blackbird  occasionally  gives  his  friends 
a  surprise.  I  found  his  nest  one  spring  day  in  a  damp  spot 
within  forty  feet  of  a  house  in  the  town  of  Lake  Forest. 
The  Skokie,  where  his  brothers  dwelt,  was  a  mile  away. 
A  much-traveled  street  passed  within  twenty  feet  of  his  home, 
and  children  played  daily  under  the  trees  almost  within  touch 
of  the  nest. 

A  redwing  took  to  a  treetop  as  I  crossed  the  bridge  over 
the  first  slough  on  that  morning's  trip.  I  was  still  thinking 
of  the  hawk  and  pigeon,  and  was  paying  but  little  heed  to  the 
swamp  resident,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  he  was  saying, 
"Look-at-me,  look-at-me,  look-at-me, "  as  he  swung  to  and 
fro  on  his  slender  perch.  He  soon  forced  my  attention,  how- 
ever, by  taking  off  in  full  flight  after  a  crow.  The  redwing 
literally  rode  on  the  crow's  back.  I  have  seen  the  kingbird 
perform  this  feat,  but  did  not  know  that  the  redwing  had  the 
spirit  for  such  deeds.  It  is  a  mooted  question  whether  or  not 
the  life  of  the  crow  has  in  it  more  evil  than  good.  I  was 
once  a  stanch  champion  of  the  crow's  cause,  but  I  have  been 
wavering  of  late  in  my  allegiance.  To  my  mind  the  most 
convincing  evidence  against  him  is  the  unanimity  with  which 
all  the  smaller  birds  hate  him.  He  must  be  a  nest  robber,  or 
else  why  the  consternation  whenever  Corvus  appears  in  a  nest- 
ing neighborhood? 

I  left  the  blackbird  behind  before  he  had  given  his  part- 
ing peck  to  the  crow.  There  is  a  high,  dry  bit  of  meadow-land 
just  beyond  the  swamp,  and  there  I  found  Dickcissel.  Dick 
has  a  yellow  shirt-front  and  wears  a  black  button  in  its  center. 
Some  one,  I  have  forgotten  who,  found  much  of  dignity  in 
Dick,  and  claimed  that  unquestionably  his  right  name  was 
Richard  Cecil.  Richard,  however,  does  not  take  kindly  to 


The  Songsters  of  the  Skokie          23 

the  name,  and  from  mullen-stalk,  or  tree,  all  day  long  in  the 
May  month  he  proclaims  his  proper  name  in  a  strident  tone, 
"Dickcissel,  Dickcissel,  Dickcissel."  The  books  call  Dick 
the  black-throated  bunting.  Formerly  the  bird  was  common 
on  the  Atlantic  coast ;  now  it  is  rarely  found  east  of  the  Alle- 
ghany  Mountains.  As  far  as  my  own  observations  go,  I  can- 
not say  that  I  have  found  it  an  abundant  bird  in  the  Middle 
West.  Dick  is  essentially  a  bird  of  the  fields,  and  yet  he 
surprised  me  one  day  by  appearing  in  a  tree  in  a  Chicago 
street,  and  there  giving  voice  to  his  name  as  insistently  as 
though  his  native  meadow  stretches  lay  below. 

Two  dilapidated  barns  stand  near  an  old  orchard  across  the 
road  from  Dickcissel' s  field.  Many  years  ago  the  apple-trees 
shaded  a  small  house,  but  that  is  gone,  and  a  season  or  two 
more  at  the  most  will  see  the  last  of  the  barns.  Then  what 
will  become  of  the  swallows  who  have  made  the  old  gray  build- 
ings their  summer  abiding-place  for  years?  Trespassers  must 
be  few  in  the  old  tumble-down  structures,  for  the  barn  swal- 
lows place  their  nests  upon  the  rafters  within  easy  reach  of 
the  ground,  and  seem  utterly  fearless  of  danger.  Ordinarily, 
the  barn  swallows  put  their  mud  and  feathered  homes  far  up 
under  the  ridge-pole,  but  in  these  old  barns,  where  they  have 
dwelt  so  many  years  in  peace,  the  birds  rear  their  young  not 
more  than  six  feet  above  Mother  Earth.  On  the  occasion  of 
my  first  visit  to  this  barn  swallow  resort,  I  was  accompanied 
by  a  big  Newfoundland  dog.  I  had  seen  the  swallows  pass 
in  and  out  the  open  doorway,  and  I  jumped  the  fence  to  get 
a  glimpse  of  their  housekeeping.  The  dog,  Jack,  jumped 
with  me.  No  sooner  had  Jack  landed  on  the  other  side  than 
the  swallows  swooped  down  on  him.  They  grazed  his  head 
in  passing,  and  I  was  ready  to  declare  that  they  tweaked  his 


24         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

ears.  To  me  they  paid  no  attention,  but  directed  their  wrath 
at  the  poor  four-footed  creature,  who  could  not  have  injured 
them  or  their  young  had  he  tried.  Jack  did  not  like  the 
treatment  he  received.  It  seemed  to  cow  him.  Here  was 
an  enemy  with  which  he  could  not  combat  on  anything  like 
equal  terms.  Finally  he  put  his  tail  between  his  legs,  jumped 
the  fence  again,  and  slunk  down  the  road,  the  swallows  dart- 
ing down  on  him  again  and  again  during  his  retreat.  They 
finally  left  him,  and  Jack  took  to  his  haunches  some  fifty 
yards  away  and  awaited  my  return.  I  made  several  journeys 
with  Jack  along  that  same  country  road  before  the  season 
waned,  but  never  again  could  I  get  him  close  to  the  scene  of 
the  swallows'  attack. 

It  was  in  a  meadow  near  the  weather-beaten  barns  that  a 
bird-loving  friend  of  mine  found  an  almost  pure  white  bobo- 
link, happily  mated  and  as  full  of  joyous  song  as  though 
Nature  had  not  mixed  her  colors  in  painting  him.  Robert 
was  white,  barring  a  few  black  streaks  on  his  breast.  I  made 
his  acquaintance  a  little  later  in  the  season,  and  found  that 
he  and  his  wife  had  a  field  all  to  themselves.  Across  the 
road  there  were  scores  of  bobolinks,  but  it  was  evident  that 
they  had  made  an  outcast  of  their  brother  because  of  his  pecu- 
liar plumage.  It  has  been  said  that  albino  birds  are  not  able 
to  secure  mates.  If  that  be  the  rule,  this  bobolink's  case  was 
an  exception,  for  he  had  a  wife  who  seemed  to  find  nothing 
wrong  with  the  attire  of  her  lord.  I  have  often  wished  that 
I  could  have  seen  the  albino  at  the  period  when  the  bobolinks 
doff  their  summer  garb  and  don  the  sober  clothing  of  the  fall. 
I  wondered  if  after  the  molting  Bob's  new  crop  of  feathers 
might  not  have  been  normal.  The  speculation  ran  still 
further,  and  I  wondered  if  the  coming  of  the  next  spring's 


The  Songsters  of  the  Skokie          25 

season  might  not  find  him  in  the  regulation  suit  of  yellow, 
white,  and  black. 

There  is  an  old  stumpy  pasture  at  the  end  of  the  Skokie 
road.  With  the  friend  who  had  found  the  albino  bobolink 
I  was  passing  this  pasture  one  day,  when  a  sparrow  alarm- 
note  quickly  and  sharply  uttered  attracted  our  attention. 
My  companion  discovered  the  source  of  the  alarm  in  a 
moment.  A  little  gray  bird  was  perched  on  the  top  of  a 
stump,  and  uttering  the  most  dismal  cries  that  I  think  I  ever 
heard  come  from  a  bird  throat.  Soon  another  bird  joined  it, 
and  for  every  cry  that  the  first  one  uttered,  the  other  went  it 
one  better,  or  as  I  thought  it,  one  worse.  Both  birds  took 
flight  and  came  close  to  us,  flying  just  above  our  heads  and 
keeping  up  their  lamenting,  for  their  tone  was  sorrow-stricken 
if  anything.  When  our  surprise  at  the  birds'  actions  had 
abated  a  little,  we  had  sense  enough  to  realize  that  we  were 
dealing  with  strangers.  The  birds  were  unquestionably  spar- 
rows, but  of  a  kind  neither  of  us  had  met  before.  As  they 
hovered  over  our  heads,  they  showed  soft  gray  breasts  with 
a  single  jet-black  spot  in  the  center.  The  sides  of  the  crown 
were  chestnut,  and  the  tail  feathers  were  tipped  with  white. 
While  flying,  both  birds  spread  their  tails  like  fans  and 
formed  a  striking  picture.  Finally  they  seemed  to  feel  that 
they  had  made  much  ado  about  nothing,  and  one  of  them 
took  to  a  fence-post  close  at  hand.  The  other  soon  dropped 
to  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  a  stump  within  ten  feet  of  us, 
and  there  fed  two  young  birds,  which  apparently  had  just 
emerged  from  the  shell.  The  birds  were  lark  sparrows,  and 
to  my  mind  they  are  the  handsomest  of  the  sparrow  tribe. 

The  day  following  the  discovery  of  the  nest  I  took  some 
friends  to  see  the  nestlings  and  their  pretty  parents.  The 


26         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

mother  bird  was  brooding  the  young  when  we  reached  the 
place.  I  stood  directly  over  her,  one  foot  on  either  side  of 
the  nest.  She  did  not  move,  but  she  looked  up  at  me  with 
an  eye  bright  with  fear.  I  sank  to  my  knees.  Mother  love 
held  her  chained  to  the  nest.  I  put  my  hand  down,  and  with 
my  forefinger  gently  stroked  her  back.  She  stood  it  for  some 
seconds,  and  then  scuttled  away,  seeking  to  lead  me  from 
her  treasures  by  pretending  to  be  crippled.  I  felt  guilty 
at  bringing  so  much  terror  to  that  little  homestead.  The 
bird  I  think  soon  gained  heart,  for  as  we  reached  the  road 
we  saw  her  carrying  food  to  the  young.  Eight  days  from 
the  afternoon  that  the  young  were  hatched  they  were  out  of 
the  nest.  Their  growth  it  struck  me  was  unprecedentedly 
rapid. 

I  found  the  lark  sparrows  breeding  in  the  same  pasture  the 
following  year,  and  it  was  not  until  then  that  I  heard  the 
male's  full  song.  On  this  occasion  my  companion  was  a 
musician,  and  one  acquainted  with  the  whole  range  of  bird 
notes.  She  pronounced  the  song  to  be  superior  in  quality  to 
that  of  any  other  of  the  sparrow  tribe.  There  was  a  treat 
that  spring  afternoon  for  eye  and  ear.  There  was  a  blending 
of  color  and  song  which  it  does  not  often  fall  to  man's  lot  to 
enjoy.  In  the  heart  of  a  small  tree,  as  yet  destitute  of  foli- 
age, sat  a  flaming  scarlet  tanager,  while  forming  a  frame 
about  him  were  seven  gorgeous  goldfinches.  Below  the  tree 
the  lark  sparrow  sang  its  sweet  solo. 

I  have  found  the  American  bittern  along  the  Skokie 
stretches  during  the  nesting-season.  That  the  bird  rears  its 
young  there  I  have  no  doubt.  The  race  of  the  bittern  in  some 
places,  I  fear,  is  nearly  run.  The  jacksnipe  shooters  who 


The  Songsters  of  the  Skokie          27 

plod  the  marshes  in  the  late  spring,  shoot  down  ruthlessly 
every  bittern  that  rises  lazily  in  front  of  them.  The  bird  is 
harmless  and  adds  something  of  life  to  the  landscape,  but  it 
must  needs  fall  victim  to  that  love  of  killing  simply  for  kill- 
ing's sake,  which  seems  to  dwell  in  the  hearts  of  many 
so-called  sportsmen. 

One  spring  morning  I  saw  a  bittern  pitch  in  the  swamp 
grasses  where  a  bit  of  the  woodland  had  encroached  upon  the 
marsh.  I  marked  the  spot  where  the  bird  had  lighted  and 
walking  toward  it  flushed  it  from  its  retreat.  It  flapped 
its  way  lazily  over  the  marsh  to  a  pasture  which  was  dotted 
with  stumps.  There  was  absolutely  no  cover  there  for  the 
bird.  I  went  to  the  place  and  searched  the  ground  thoroughly 
through  a  pair  of  strong  glasses,  but  never  a  feather  did  I  see. 
I  knew  that  I  could  not  have  failed  to  see  the  bittern  had  it 
flown  away,  for  barring  the  stumps,  the  place  was  as  open  as 
a  lawn.  Finally  a  small  stump  came  into  the  field  of  my  glass. 
Stump?  No;  it  was  not  a  stump  at  all,  but  the  bittern  itself 
posing  as  a  bit  of  dead  wood  to  deceive  the  intruder.  The 
bird  was  not  more  than  fifteen  yards  away.  Its  body  was 
perpendicular,  its  neck  and  head  were  drawn  well  down  into 
the  shoulders,  and  the  beak  was  pointing  upward,  forming  a 
prolongation  of  the  line  of  the  back.  The  bird  in  appearance 
was  the  counterpart  of  every  one  of  a  dozen  of  the  smaller 
stumps  within  a  stone's  toss  of  where  I  stood.  I  sat  down 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  testing  the  bittern's  patience.  I 
watched  it  steadily  for  twenty  minutes,  and  during  all  that 
time  it  moved  not  so  much  as  a  muscle.  It  seemed,  more- 
over, as  if  it  had  control  of  its  feathers,  for  the  passing  breeze 
which  stirred  the  swamp  grass  beyond,  failed  to  ruffle  its 


28         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

plumage.  Finally  I  became  half  ashamed  of  keeping  the  bird 
under  such  a  strain,  and  rising,  I  walked  toward  it  slowly.  I 
was  allowed  to  come  within  a  few  feet  before  it  moved. 
Then,  after  taking  four  comically  dignified  steps,  the  bittern 
flew  far  down  the  stream  which  makes  its  way  through  the 
heart  of  the  swamp-land. 


SJafs 

>^^BKt  f  J       ""**'-*.*/ 

^SIB^ 


: 


DICKCISSEL. 


CHAPTER  III 

THROUGH    THE   LOST    RIVER   VALLEY 

It  matters  little  whether  the  wind  be  roaring  or  bleating, 
there  comes  into  the  heart  of  the  bird-lover  March  first  a  puls- 
ing desire  to  see  the  first  robin  of  the  springtime.  Almanacs 
and  calendars  forgotten,  the  true  bird  enthusiast  can  tell  the 
first  day  of  the  first  spring  month  by  a  certain  quickened 
sense  of  yearning  for  the  feathered  friends  of  a  bygone  year. 
Unhappily,  however,  the  first  day  of  spring  does  not  always 
bring  the  first  songster,  and  after  a  suburban  trip  afield  on 
that  day  had  developed  no  birds  save  some  storm-blown  gulls, 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  south  and  meet  the  migration 
midway. 

My  pilgrimage  took  me  to  the  valley  of  the  Lost  River 
in  southern  Indiana.  The  grass  had  not  yet  taken  on  even  a 
tinge  of  green,  but  all  the  hillsides  were  glowing  with  the  red 
bloom  of  the  maple.  Some  botanist  will  have  to  tell  why 
the  grass  was  a  laggard  while  the  towering  trees  were  aflush. 
The  native  sparrows,  the  slate-colored  snowbirds,  and  the  other 
gleaners  of  the  ground  in  this  part  of  Hoosierdom,  must  look 
upward  for  their  spring  signs,  and  forget  the  withered  grass 
blades  of  a  year  that  is  gone. 

Southern  Indiana,  the  land  of  the  redbird,  and  alack,  of 
the  red  mud !  To  hear  the  matchless  whistling  solo  of  the 
one,  the  bird-lover  must  take  rather  more  than  a  surfeit  of 
the  other.  Mud,  mud,  red  March  mud  everywhere;  but 
above  it  all  a  flood  of  melody  from  a  thousand  throats.  I 

29 


30         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

doubt  if  there  be  many  places  on  earth  better  adapted  to  bird 
life  and  better  loved  by  the  birds  than  this  southern  Indiana 
country. 

With  a  companion  who  was  willing  to  become  an  enthusi- 
ast, I  left  the  hotel  on  the  morning  following  my  arrival,  just 
as  the  sun  was  touching  the  top  of  a  chain  of  sugar-loaf  hills 
to  the  east.  Although  we  were  nearly  three  hundred  miles 
south  of  the  shore  of  Lake  Michigan,  we  were  not  quite  near 
enough  to  Dixie  to  have  left  behind  us  the  last  trace  of  win- 
ter. A  light  cloak  of  snow  clothed  the  hilltops,  and  upon 
the  lawn  that  stretched  away  from  the  hotel  steps,  white 
patches  showed  here  and  there.  At  the  edge  of  one  of 
these  snowy  spots  a  male  robin,  with  the  "brighter  crimson" 
of  the  springtime  on  his  breast,  was  pulling  a  reluctant  worm 
from  the  sod.  He  was  especially  welcome  to  his  discoverers, 
for  he  was  their  first  robin  of  the  season.  Before  we  had 
crossed  the  bridge  which  spans  the  little  river,  we  passed  a 
score  of  robin  brothers  and  sisters,  all  industriously  and  suc- 
cessfully "digging  for  bait."  We  startled  some  of  the  birds 
from  their  feeding-places,  and  thereat  they  made  straight  for 
the  maples,  where  their  breasts  "added  another  bit  of  red  to 
the  budding  trees.  They  did  not  seem  to  resent  our  discour- 
tesy, but  in  the  joy  coming  from  full  stomachs  and  a  glori- 
ous morning,  they  told  us  in  chorus  to  "cheer  up." 

My  heart  was  set  on  redbirds.  I  had  never  been  so  placed 
that  I  could  form  a  close  acquaintance  with  these  gold- 
tongued  creatures.  I  had  seen  the  cardinal  grosbeak — that 
is  the  redbird's  other  name — only  on  rare  occasions.  One 
year  a  pair  of  the  birds  visited  Graceland  cemetery  in  the  city 
of  Chicago.  They  were  accidental  visitors,  and  my  com- 
panionship with  them  was  limited  to  the  space  of  thirty  min- 


Through  the  Lost  River  Valley       31 

utes.  I  had  just  enough  of  it  to  make  me  wish  for  more. 
There  is  something  in  the  note  of  the  cardinal  grosbeak  that 
satisfies  my  ear  more  fully,  perhaps,  than  the  song  of  any 
other  bird.  It  has  about  it  a  wholesomeness  and  yet  a  sweet- 
ness and  cheer  that  I  have  found  in  no  other  bird  voice.  I 
must  confess,  however,  that  when  I  have  made  this  admission 
to  friends  who  have  more  music  in  their  souls  than  ever  I 
may  hope  to  have,  they  have  regarded  it  as  a  bit  of  enthusi- 
asm springing  from  no  very  sound  judgment.  Certain  it  is, 
however,  that  no  one  can  tire  of  the  color  and  marked  indi- 
viduality of  the  cardinal  grosbeak. 

The  startled  robins  had  returned  to  their  feeding-ground 
when  from  some  brush  beyond  the  railroad  trestle  came  a 
melodious  whistle,  " Beauty,  beauty,  beauty."  It  was  the 
call  of  Master  Redbird.  Small  blame  to  him  for  being  vain 
and  for  pouring  into  the  ears  of  his  listeners  the  oft-repeated 
tale  of  his  beauty.  A  song  sparrow  had  taken  to  the  topmost 
rail  of  a  crooked  fence,  and  his  ecstatic  song  was  coming  from 
a  throat  that  bade  fair  to  split.  When  the  full,  rich  notes  of 
the  cardinal  came  over  the  field  and  marsh,  the  sparrow 
stopped  singing,  as  if  he  knew  that  a  master's  instrument  was 
in  tune.  From  the  standpoint  of  pure  melody,  however,  I 
am  told,  and  I  believe,  that  the  sober-garbed  song  sparrow 
need  not  fear  to  have  his  voice  put  to  the  test  with  that  of 
his  brilliant  cousin.  There  were  a  dozen  cardinals  in  the 
underbrush  by  the  swamp.  The  singing  was  constant,  but 
for  some  reason  of  their  own,  the  birds  sang  only  one  at  a 
time.  I  thought,  perhaps,  they  felt  that  a  chorus  of  such 
sweetness  would  cloy.  The  Mesdames  Cardinal,  of  whom 
there  were  several,  refused  to  sing  at  all  on  that  morning, 
although  their  notes  have  a  softer  sweetness  than  have  those 


32         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

of  their  red-robed  lords.  A  man  who  was  at  work  clearing 
land  back  of  the  cardinals'  retreat  said  that  the  redbirds  were 
more  plentiful  than  ever.  Here  was  some  recompense  for  days 
spent  in  stuffy  Chicago  justice  shops  in  the  effort  to  secure 
the  punishment  of  receivers  of  stolen  goods  in  the  shape  of 
trapped  and  caged  cardinals. 

On  our  right  was  a  great  field  whose  soil  was  pierced  with 
standing  stalks  of  withered  corn.  One  of  the  cardinals  left 
his  undergrowth  retreat,  and  crossing  our  path  lighted  on  one 
of  the  stalks  about  midway  of  its  height.  An  ear  of  corn  that 
the  gleaners  had  overlooked  was  still  clinging  to  the  stem. 
The  cardinal  at  once  began  the  process  of  husking  and  shell- 
ing. With  his  powerful  beak  he  pulled  a  strip  of  the  husk 
outward  and  downward,  and  then  he  attacked  the  disclosed 
kernels.  The  sun  struck  the  bird  full  and  fair.  His  plumage 
was  like  fire,  and  a  brilliant  picture  it  made  against  the  con- 
trasting brown  of  the  corn.  The  cardinal  shelled  at  least  a 
dozen  kernels  and  dropped  them  one  by  one  to  the  ground. 
Then  he  took  to  the  ground  himself  and  began  the  work  of 
cracking  the  provender;  at  least  I  think  he  cracked  it.  He 
went  through  a  process  that  was  remarkably  like  chewing,  but 
even  a  strong  field-glass  did  not  enable  me  to  determine  posi- 
tively whether  or  not  he  swallowed  the  kernels  whole.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  left  his  feeding-place  and  went  back  to  his 
friends  in  the  underbrush.  I  went  down  into  the  field  and 
examined  his  breakfast-table,  but  he  had  cleared  it  so  thor- 
oughly that  not  a  crumb  remained. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  the  whistling  redbirds  behind,  but 
there  were  other  feathered  friends  and  feathered  strangers  to 
be  looked  for,  and  forsooth,  all  the  cardinals  of  southern 
Indiana  are  not  confined  to  one  bit  of  underbrush.  We  left 


Through  the  Lost  River  Valley        33 

the  railroad  track  for  the  highroad.  Soon  we  were  overtaken 
by  an  attenuated-looking  native,  seated  on  a  load  of  hickory 
staves  drawn  by  a  pair  of  fat  horses.  He  politely  offered  the 
strangers  a  "lift,"  for  he  was  going  a  "right  smart  way." 
His  invitation  was  speedily  accepted,  for  March  mud  makes 
tired  tramps.  The  driver  confided  to  his  guests  who  sat  on 
the  body  of  the  load  that  he  worked  from  sunrise  to  sunset 
cutting  and  drawing  hickory  for  the  sum  of  sixty  cents  a  day. 
On  this  he  fed,  clothed,  and  housed  a  wife  and  four  children. 
We  felt  no  need  to  commiserate  this  man  on  his  lot,  because 
he  said  he  was  contented.  What  is  there  more  than  this? 
This  hewer  of  wood  was  a  man  of  sentiment.  My  heart  went 
out  to  him. 

"Some  people  think  I  am  queer,"  he  said,  "because  I 
stop  work  when  the  brown  thrush  sings,  and  because  I  don't 
let  my  boys  go  bird-nesting." 

Bless  him !  It  is  good  to  know  that  the  small  army  of 
"cranks"  has  recruits  where  they  are  most  needed. 

From  a  beech  at  the  left  of  the  road  came  a  sharp  "Quank, 
quank."  Quick  as  a  flash  our  Hoosier  stave-splitter  said: 
"That's  a  nuthatch.  Most  people  hereabouts  call  it  a  sap- 
sucker.  It  ain't." 

Here  was  knowledge  based  on  observation,  and  not  on 
books.  The  bird  was  a  white-breasted  nuthatch,  and  the 
experience  of  a  few  days  showed  that  it  was  known  to  most 
of  the  inhabitants  of  that  Lost  River  Valley  as  a  sapsucker, 
a  name  suggestive  of  injury  to  trees,  and  a  name  which  has 
brought  upon  the  tribe  of  Indiana  nuthatches  much  unde- 
served persecution. 

A  scream,  "Keo-u,  keo-u,"  came  sharply  across  a  field 
which  stretched  away  toward  the  river.  A  large  hawk  was 


34         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

making  for  a  solitary  sycamore  which  stood  in  the  field's  cen- 
ter. He  was  in  ignominious  flight  with  two  crows  in  hot 
pursuit.  The  hawk  pitched  upon  a  limb  and  clung  there, 
though  one  of  his  pursuers  struck  him  full  and  fair.  The 
impact  swung  the  hawk  about,  but  he  made  no  attempt  to 
retaliate.  Our  driver  kindly  stopped  his  horses,  and  we  glued 
our  glasses  on  the  big  bird.  It  was  a  red-shouldered  hawk, 
beyond  much  doubt,  though  positive  identification  at  the 
distance  was  impossible.  The  crows  took  a  perch  just  above 
his  hawkship  and  dropped  down  alternately  to  give  him  a 
peck  and  a  wing  stroke,  which  he  took  with  cowardly  humil- 
ity. The  red-shouldered  hawk  will  strike  and  carry  off  a 
game-cock,  but  the  spurless  crow  is  his  master.  Why  it  is 
that  this  bird,  so  well  fitted  by  Nature  for  fighting,  should 
allow  himself  on  all  occasions  to  be  browbeaten  and  thrashed  is 
something  that  is  past  finding  out.  The  crow  is  literally  the 
b$te  noir  of  the  hawk  tribe.  Perhaps  the  reason  may  be,  as 
our  Indiana  friend  suggested,  "The  crow  has  the  devil  in 
him,  and  every  bird  and  everybody  is  afraid  of  the  devil." 

The  road  wound  round  the  base  of  one  of  the  many  hills. 
A  bird  flushed  from  the  wayside,  took  to  the  top  of  a  pole 
which  served  as  a  support  for  the  rails  of  the  crooked  fence. 
"One  of  the  smaller  thrushes,"  was  the  first  thought,  but  it 
was  too  early  even  in  southern  Indiana  for  the  hermit  or  the 
veery.  The  bird  sang  softly.  No  bell-like  thrush  notes 
these.  The  singer  was  the  fox  sparrow,  the  largest  of  his 
tribe,  but  this  vocal  effort  was  not  his  best.  Foxie  seemed 
to  feel  that  even  though  the  sun  were  bright  in  the  valley, 
there  might  be  storm  conditions  yet  ahead,  and  that  the  time 
had  not  yet  come  for  the  fullness  of  song.  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  the  fox  sparrow  of  the  Middle  West  is  of  a 


Through  the  Lost  River  Valley       35 

richer  color  than  his  Eastern  brother.  When  the  sun  strikes 
his  back,  it  is  positively  red ;  then,  too,  there  seems  to  be  a 
deeper  shade  to  the  brown  spots  and  stripes  upon  the  breast 
of  our  Western  bird.  The  sparrow  had  been  gleaning  the 
roadside  in  company  with  a  lot  of  juncoes,  otherwise  and 
more  lengthily  known  as  slate-colored  snowbirds.  The 
juncoes  flitted  leisurely  along  in  front  of  the  wagon,  flirting 
their  tails  and  showing  the  snow-white  feathers  which  are 
their  distinguishing  mark.  I  believe  that  the  juncoes  are 
inordinately  proud  of  these  white  markings.  Certain  it  is 
that  never  one  of  them  takes  wing  without  making  a  great 
showing  of  the  snowy  feathers.  There  must  have  been  five 
hundred  of  the  juncoes  all  told,  with  here  and  there  in  the 
flock  some  cinnamon-crowned  Canadian  tree  sparrows. 

The  thoughts  of  the  whole  flock  were  bent  on  food. 
Suddenly  there  came  from  far  over  the  field  a  piercing 
"Killy,  killy,  killy."  The  snowbirds  and  the  sparrows  were 
stricken  with  an  awful  fear.  There  was  a  moment  of  fright- 
ened crouching,  and  then  the  flock  rose  as  one  bird  and 
dashed  into  the  heavy  undergrowth  beyond  the  roadside 
fence.  A  shadow  passed  over  the  ground,  and  from  above 
again  came  the  repeated  and  suggestive  scream,  "Killy,  killy, 
killy."  A  sparrow  hawk  was  abroad  in  search  of  his  break- 
fast. It  is  the  smallest  as  it  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
hawks.  It  may  be  that  our  presence  at  the  foot  of  the  big 
cottonwood-tree,  on  which  the  hawk  took  its  perch,  saved 
the  life  of  one  of  the  trembling  juncoes.  At  any  rate,  the 
bird  made  no  attempt  to  strike  feathered  quarry,  but  with  a 
farewell  scream,  flew  off  to  a  point  above  the  center  of  a  bare 
field.  There  it  hovered  gracefully  for  a  moment  after  the 
manner  of  the  northern  shrike.  Then  it  dropped  down  like 


36         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

the  passage  of  light  upon  what  was  doubtless  "a  morsel  of  a 
mouse." 

We  met  another  sparrow  hawk  within  a  hundred  rods. 
The  bird  was  abundant,  and  the  people  told  me  that  it  was  a 
permanent  resident  in  southern  Indiana.  I  was  interested  in 
the  actions  of  this  second  little  hawk,  because  although  it  was 
only  the  first  week  in  March,  I  believe  it  was  hunting  a  nest- 
ing site.  It  was  screaming  as  shrilly  as  did  its  brother  first 
met,  and  all  the  small  birds  of  the  neighborhood  were  under 
cover.  The  sparrow  hawk  makes  its  home  in  a  hole  in  a  tree. 
This  particular  bird  flew  to  a  cottonwood  that  was  bare  of 
branches  for  a  long  distance  from  the  ground.  It  disappeared 
so  suddenly  after  reaching  the  tree  that  our  curiosity  was 
aroused,  and  we  left  the  stave-splitter  and  his  wagon  and 
started  for  the  cottonwood.  The  tree  stood  alone,  and  the 
hawk  could  not  leave  it  without  being  seen.  We  searched 
with  our  glasses,  but  found  no  trace  of  the  bird.  Half-way 
up  the  trunk,  however,  we  discovered  a  hole.  My  companion 
picked  up  a  club  and  pounded  on  the  tree.  The  sparrow 
hawk  came  out  of  the  hole  with  a  rush,  and  screamed  "Killy," 
as  he  flew  away,  and  I  haven't  the  least  doubt  it  meant  it, 
for  we  probably  angered  him  by  interfering  with  its  affairs. 
Several  days  afterward  I  saw  the  hawk  go  into  the  same  hole, 
and  had  the  feat  been  possible,  I  should  have  climbed  the 
tree  to  see  if  I  could  not  find  a  nest  and  eggs,  and  thus  establish 
the  fact  that  the  sparrow-hawk  gets  him  a  home  at  a  much 
earlier  date  than  the  scientists  put  it  down  in  the  books. 

The  chickadee,  the  cheerful  little  character  in  feathers 
beloved  of  Emerson  and  Thoreau,  tells  the  same  lisping  tale 
and  performs  the  same  dizzy  gymnastic  feats  in  the  lindens 
along  Lost  River  that  he  does  in  the  elms  on  Concord's 


Through  the  Lost  River  Valley       37 

banks.  On  that  March  morning,  the  chickadee  showed  me  a 
new  trait  in  his  character.  I  never  before  had  known  the  bird 
to  be  in  the  least  pugnacious.  Yet  here  he  was  having  a  very 
decided  row  with  a  nuthatch  neighbor.  The  birds  were  on 
the  same  limb,  and  perhaps  their  quarrel  was  over  some  choice 
bit  of  insect  food  that  lay  hidden  in  the  bark.  Whatever  the 
cause,  they  went  at  each  other  like  a  pair  of  game-cocks.  A 
bluejay,  which  let  me  say  in  passing  was,  strangely  enough, 
the  only  one  I  saw  in  southern  Indiana,  was  looking  on  at  the 
combat  with  an  expression  of  pure  amazement.  The  jay, 
doubtless,  had  had  many  a  pitched  battle  of  his  own,  but 
equally  doubtless  he  had  never  before  looked  on  a  sight  like 
this.  Here  were  two  models  of  deportment  descending  to  the 
level  of  the  prize-ring.  I  know  that  the  jay,  like  the  human 
observer,  wanted  to  cry  " shame,"  but  also,  like  the  human 
observer,  was  kept  from  it  by  the  fear  of  being  thought  incon- 
sistent. The  two  feathered  morsels  fought  for  fully  two 
minutes,  and  then  the  nuthatch  turned  tail  and  fled.  He  took 
to  the  trunk  of  a  big  tree,  and  there,  head  downward,  began 
searching  for  food  as  unconcernedly  as  though  he  had  never 
forgotten  for  an  instant  what  was  due  to  his  fame  as  a  bird  of 
correct  habit.  The  chickadee  remained  on  the  battle-ground, 
and  in  a  moment  he  uttered  his  * '  phcebe' '  note,  though  whether 
it  was  intended  as  a  cock's  crow  of  victory  or  not  must  remain 
a  secret. 

There  have  been  one  or  two  grave  discussions  as  to 
whether  birds  are  deficient  in  the  sense  of  smell.  I  came 
to  the  conclusion  during  my  southern  Indiana  sojourn  that 
some  birds  must  be  deficient  in  both  the  senses  of  taste  and 
smell.  In  Orange  County  is  situated  a  group  of  springs  famous 
for  their  healing  qualities,  and — dare  I  say  it? — infamous 


38         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

for  their  taste  and  smell.  I  had  ample  evidence  of  the  cura- 
tive powers  of  the  waters,  but  I  must  say  that  the  fountain- 
heads  make  their  presence  known  long  before  you  come 
within  sight  of  their  bubbling  water.  The  gem-like  Maryland 
yellow  throat  will  build  its  nest  in  the  heart  of  an  ill-smelling 
skunk-cabbage.  This  is  one  of  the  arguments  advanced  for 
the  absence  of  the  olfactory  nerve  in  some  birds.  If  those 
who  adduce  this  yellow-throat  habit  to  substantiate  their 
theory  could  see,  as  I  have  seen,  the  cardinal,  the  robin,  and 
the  crow  blackbird  drinking  with  apparent  relish  of  water  that 
smelled  to  heaven  and  beyond,  they  would  consider  their 
point  proven  beyond  the  peradventure  of  a  doubt. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN    SOUTHERN    HOOSIER    HILLS 

The  Lost  River  of  Indiana  is  well  named.  It  flows  along 
its  noisy  course  for  many  miles,  and  then  suddenly  disappears 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  At  a  point  more  than  a  mile 
from  where  the  stream  gets  lost  it  reappears,  and  thence 
to  its  mouth  its  way  is  lt clear  and  above  ground."  The  river 
flows  for  some  distance  through  a  natural  bowl.  A  rain  of  a 
few  hours'  duration  causes  an  overflow  of  its  banks,  and  the 
bowl  becomes  a  lake.  A  heavy  thunder-storm  occurred  dur- 
ing the  night  following  my  first  day's  trip  afield  in  the  Lost 
River  country.  The  morning  showed  the  haunts  of  the  red- 
birds  and  juncoes  well  under  water.  There  was  not  a  cloud 
in  the  sky,  but  the  little  valley  through  which  we  had  tramped 
the  day  before  was  flooded  from  hill  to  hill.  The  highlands 
offered  the  only  conditions  that  seemed  likely  to  prove  satis- 
factory to  birds  and  bird-lovers. 

I  found  a  companion  for  the  second  day's  outing  in  a 
young  Indianapolis  physician  who  had  sought  southern  Indi- 
ana "for  the  healing  of  the  waters."  Apparently  he  had 
sought  it  to  good  effect.  Two  weeks  before  he  had  been 
carried  into  the  hotel,  too  weak  to  walk,  and  to-day  he  was 
willing  to  undertake  a  tramp  of  ten  miles  over  the  hills. 
Some  one  told  us  of  a  sugar-bush  that  was  to  be  found  in  the 
back  country.  This  information  was  an  added  inducement 
to  the  doctor  who  confessed  a  weakness  for  maple  sap. 

Before  we  struck  out  for  the  higher  hills  we  came  across  a 

39 


40         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

group  of  men  and  boys  at  the  edge  of  a  pond.  A  mud-hen, 
which  had  dropped  in  during  the  night  for  food  and  rest,  was 
paddling  about  the  water,  and  acting  as  a  target  for  the  revol- 
vers of  half  a  dozen  of  the  men.  The  bullets  spattered  on  the 
surface  all  about  the  bird,  but  it  lacked  the  wisdom  to  take 
flight.  It  swam  about  in  a  circle  in  a  half-bewildered  way 
and  simply  invited  death.  I  asked  the  men  to  stop  shooting, 
but  I  speedily  found  that  humanitarian  pleas  are  of  little  avail 
when  addressed  to  a  man  with  a  gun.  I  threw  a  stone  the 
size  of  my  fist  in  the  direction  of  the  bird,  hoping  that  the 
splash  would  frighten  it  to  flight,  but  the  stone  had  no  more 
effect  than  the  shots.  We  left  the  men  still  popping  away, 
and  that  evening  on  our  return  I  heard  a  big  fellow  boasting 
to  the  group  gathered  round  the  open  fire  in  the  hotel  office 
that  he  had  killed  the  bird  at  the  fifteenth  shot.  Mud-hens 
are  notoriously  stupid,  and  they  pay  the  penalty  of  their 
stupidity  every  time  a  pot-hunter  gets  into  one  of  their 
retreats. 

I  saw  my  first  bluebird  of  the  year  that  morning  in  the 
Hoosier  hills.  The  bluebirds  must  have  wonderful  recruiting 
powers ;  it  was  only  seven  years  before  that  their  ranks  were  so 
thinned  by  the  attacks  of  the  cold  that  it  was  thought  the  mus- 
ter-roll never  again  would  be  full.  This  spring  of  1901  was  the 
first  time  that  I  had  seen  anything  like  a  satisfying  number  of 
these  sweet-voiced  birds  since  they  fell  victims  to  that  wintry 
blast  which  penetrated  far  into  the  southland.  It  is  said  now 
that  there  are  more  bluebirds  than  ever,  but  this  saying  is 
doubtless  due  to  faulty  memories  on  the  part  of  the  observers. 
One  bluebird  that  we  came  across  was  gravely  inspecting  the 
carcass  of  a  crow  which  some  one  had  hung  on  the  thorns  of 
an  Osage  orange  hedge.  The  crow  had  been  killed  and  put 


In  Southern  Hoosier  Hills  41 

there  as  a  lesson  to  his  marauding  brothers,  but  I  couldn't 
believe  that  the  lesson  had  sunk  very  deep  into  the  crow 
mind,  for  on  a  tree  less  than  fifty  yards  from  the  body  of  the 
deceased,  three  crows  were  sitting  and  sunning  themselves 
unconcernedly. 

Before  the  morning  was  spent  I  had  found  out  why  it  is 
that  heavy  windstorms  fail  to  break  the  eggs  in  birds'  nests 
that  are  hung  on  frail  branches  which  sway  and  snap  with 
every  blast.  The  roads  were  in  such  condition  that  they 
were  impassable  for  wagons,  and  many  people  passed  us  on 
horseback.  If  memory  serves,  every  one  of  the  horsemen 
carried  a  basket  of  eggs  slung  over  his  right  arm.  The  horses 
floundered  through  mud-holes,  and  made  their  stumbling  ways 
up  and  down  hills  where  the  roadway  was  covered  with 
stumps  and  stones  washed  out  from  the  embankments  by  the 
heavy  rain.  The  rider  in  every  instance  made  the  basket  with 
its  precious  burden  conform  to  the  swaying  motion  of  the 
horse,  and  never  an  egg  did  I  see  broken.  One  rider  told  us 
that  he  depended  largely  on  the  egg  crop  for  a  living  and 
that  he  couldn't  afford  to  smash  any.  He  further  volunteered 
the  information  that  he  thought  he  could  fall  down  hill  with 
his  horse  "and  never  crack  a  shell." 

Our  way  led  us  through  a  little  hamlet.  At  the  crossing 
of  two  roads  there  was  a  tavern  with  a  huge  tree  standing  in 
front  of  its  door.  There  were  six  bronzed  grackles  holding  a 
"windy  congress"  in  the  branches.  A  redbird  occupied  a 
perch  at  the  very  top  of  a  small  tree  which  stood  at  the  gate 
of  a  cottage  next  the  inn.  Four  boys  were  playing  about  the 
gate,  and  though  the  bird  was  calling  loudly,  the  youngsters 
paid  no  heed.  I  thought  it  promised  well  for  the  future  of  the 
race  of  redbirds  when  a  songster  of  such  brilliancy  could  sit 


42         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

and  sing  unmolested  just  above  the  heads  of  four  boys  who 
were  passing  through  the  sling-shot  and  bird-nesting  age. 
Thinking  it  barely  possible  that  the  boys,  intent  on  play,  had 
not  noticed  the  bird,  I  purposely  called  their  attention  to  it 
and  asked  them  what  it  was.  They  were  not  backward  in 
expressing  surprise  at  my  supposed  ignorance,  and  the  answer 
to  my  question  was,  " Don't  you  know  a  redbird,  mister?" 
Then  they  told  me  there  were  lots  of  redbirds  around,  and 
that  they  could  whistle  "bully."  It  is  more  than  likely  that 
the  very  commonness  of  certain  birds  of  brilliant  plumage 
saves  them  from  destruction.  It  is  to  the  unaccustomed  that 
human  attention  is  most  sharply  attracted.  In  the  East  in 
many  places  the  red-headed  woodpecker  has  been  practically 
exterminated.  He  never  was  as  common  a  bird  there  as  he 
is  to-day  with  us  in  the  Middle  Western  country.  His  rarity 
and  beauty  invited  destruction,  and  it  came.  In  the  prairie 
towns  and  villages  the  red-headed  woodpecker  is  as  common 
as  the  robin,  and  despite  his  beauty,  the  small  boy  passes 
him  by  with  barely  a  thought. 

The  red-headed  woodpecker  came  into  my  mind  while  we 
stood  at  the  gate  talking  to  the  little  Hoosier  lads;  and  fol- 
lowing came  a  thought  that  not  one  of  these  birds  had  we 
seen,  though  I  had  understood  from  a  friend  who  had  visited 
the  locality  before  that  the  red-headed  woodpeckers  were 
abundant.  When  we  had  left  the  little  village  behind  us  we 
accepted  standing-room  in  a  grain  wagon,  offered  by  a  boy 
who  was  driving  home  from  the  railroad  station.  I  asked 
him  about  the  red-headed  woodpeckers.  He  said  that  gener- 
ally they  were  the  commonest  birds  that  they  had,  but  that 
the  fall  before  they  had  all  disappeared,  and  that  he  had  not 
seen  one  all  through  the  winter  nor  thus  far  in  the  spring.  I 


In  Southern  Hoosier  Hills  43 

asked  him  how  he  accounted  for  their  disappearance,  and  he 
answered  that  the  birds  left  because  the  beechnut  crop  was  a 
failure.  "The  red-heads,"  he  said,  "like  beechnuts  better 
than  any  other  food.  They  live  on  them  all  winter.  Last 
fall,  for  some  reason,  there  wasn't  a  beechnut  in  the  country, 
and  the  birds  all  cleared  out." 

The  lad's  explanation  was  undoubtedly  the  true  one.  He 
said  that  he  had  studied  something  about  the  birds  in  school, 
and  that  there  wasn't  as  much  shooting  going  on  now  as 
there  used  to  be.  When  he  discovered  that  we  were  bird 
enthusiasts  and  were  out  on  an  opera-glass  hunt,  he  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion  and  gave  us  much  information. 
He  was  in  a  receptive  mood  as  well,  and  I  hope  that  he 
gained  knowledge  enough  to  pay  him  for  what  he  imparted. 

A  high-pitched  voice,  calling  "Peter,  Peter,  Peter,"  came 
from  some  trees  on  the  hillside.  The  boy  stopped  his  horses. 

"I've  seen  and  heard  that  bird  ever  since  I  was  born,"  he 
said;  "I  call  him  Peter,  because  that's  what  he  calls  himself, 
but  what  the  bird  is  I  don't  know;  tell  me." 

By  this  time  I  had  the  bird  in  the  field  of  my  glass,  and  I 
told  the  boy  driver  its  name,  though  this  was  my  first  glimpse 
in  life  of  "Peter."  The  discovery  of  a  bird  new  to  the 
observer  makes  a  red-letter  field-day.  "Peter"  was  the 
tufted  titmouse,  first  cousin  to  the  chickadee.  "Tufty"  is 
common  enough  in  the  southern  Indiana  latitude,  and  is  occa- 
sionally seen  as  far  north  as  Chicago,  though  it  had  never 
been  my  fortune  to  meet  him.  Soon  more  of  the  titmice 
came  into  sight.  There  was  a  troop  numbering  nearly  a 
score.  They  are  active  little  creatures,  and  of  a  jolly  tem- 
perament. For  a  week  I  had  ample  opportunity  to  study 
"Tufty"  and  his  ways;  and  with  all  due  regard  for  our  little 


44         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

friend,  the  black-cap  chickadee,  who  does  his  best  to  save  our 
Northern  winters  from  dreariness,  I  confess  that  I  think  Cousin 
Peter  is  of  the  more  interesting  habit. 

A  woodpecker  note  that  was  new  made  me  ask  our  driver 
to  stop  once  more.  An  orange-pated  bird  scuttled  around 
the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Here  was  another  discovery.  It  was 
the  red-bellied  woodpecker,  common  enough  in  this  locality, 
but  hitherto  a  stranger  to  the  visiting  observers.  This  wood- 
pecker has  been  getting  himself  much  disliked  in  recent  years. 
It  is  not  at  all  an  uncommon  bird  in  Florida,  and  there  the 
orange-growers  say  that  it  attacks  and  ruins  the  fruit.  Bird- 
lovers,  the  country  over,  are  hoping  that  it  will  be  proved  that 
the  bird  selects  only  the  unsound  oranges  for  probing.  Since 
it  has  been  fairly  well  established  that  the  kingbird,  which 
was  supposed  to  be  a  great  destroyer  of  honey-bees,  eats  only 
the  worthless  drones,  the  red-bellied  woodpecker's  friends 
hope  that  a  parallel  excuse  may  be  found  for  its  conduct. 

We  drove  under  a  tree  whose  branches  roofed  the  road. 
It  was  filled  with  red-winged  blackbirds.  They  were  all 
males,  and  as  they  shifted  uneasily  from  twig  to  twig,  they 
showed  to  advantage  their  shoulder-knots  of  scarlet  and  gold. 
It  was  a  noisy  flock,  but  in  the  spring  every  bird-note  has  in 
it  something  of  softness.  Our  driver  host  told  us  that  the 
redwings  were  abundant  in  spring  and  fall,  but  that  they  did 
not  nest  anywhere  in  the  vicinity.  This  statement  struck  me 
as  being  curious,  for  on  every  side  were  places  which  seemed 
to  be  ideal  for  the  purposes  of  blackbird  housekeeping. 
Beyond  the  blackbird  tree  we  saw  our  first  meadowlark.  He 
was  full  of  the  joy  of  living,  and  was  trying  his  best  to  tell 
the  listening  world  about  it  from  the  top  of  a  fence-post. 
We  drove  past  the  bird  without  causing  him  to  leave  his  perch. 


In  Southern  Hoosier  Hills  45 

I  have  known  the  meadowlark  since  boyhood,  but  never 
before  had  been  so  near  the  living  bird,  except  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  I  had  flushed  it  from  its  nest  with  my  trespassing 
footsteps.  A  little  farther  on  we  found  a  flock  of  gold- 
finches. As  doubtless  every  one  knows,  the  male  goldfinch 
changes  his  resplendent  coat  of  yellow  and  black  for  one  of 
dun  in  the  fall  of  the  year.  He  takes  off  this  habit  some 
time  in  the  spring,  and  puts  on  his  summer  livery  once  more. 
Three  of  the  goldfinches  we  saw  on  that  March  morning 
were  in  the  transition  stage.  With  them,  undressing  and 
dressing  must  be  the  matter  of  a  month  or  so.  Familiar  as 
my  companion  and  I  were  with  the  goldfinch  in  both  his  hot 
and  cold  weather  attire,  neither  of  us  had  ever  before  seen 
him  while  he  was  changing  his  clothes.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
I  did  not  recognize  the  bird  until  the  little  flock  took  wing 
and  began  the  familiar  weaving  flight  across  the  field.  I  have 
seen  the  goldfinch  in  northern  Illinois  as  late  as  April  1st  still 
wearing  his  full  winter  costume. 

As  my  friend  the  doctor  and  I  were  bound  for  a  sugar- 
camp,  which  was  supposed  to  lie  at  the  left  of  the  road  we 
were  traveling,  the  time  was  approaching  when  we  should 
have  to  leave  the  wagon  and  take  to  the  fields.  In  the  few 
minutes  which  passed  before  parting  with  our  boy  driver  he 
took  occasion  to  tell  us  that  he  had  liked  birds  and  flowers 
ever  since  he  could  remember.  Then  he  named  a  number 
of  his  favorites.  That  boy  had  a  keen  insight,  and  knew 
Nature  thoroughly  and  sympathetically.  When  we  said 
good  by,  I  casually  asked  his  name. 

"Love,"  he  said. 

Surely  there  is  something  in  a  name  after  all. 

My   companion   and   I   trudged   our  way   over   the    hills 


46         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

toward  the  west.  A  mile  ahead  we  saw  a  house  with  a  grove 
back  of  it.  " There,  surely,"  we  thought,  "we  shall  find  the 
sugar-camp."  We  made  the  mile,  and  were  told  that  we  had 
another  one  to  go.  We  tramped  fully  two  good  city  miles, 
and  found  we  were  "not  there  yet."  A  man  in  a  field  was 
opening  a  shock  of  corn,  an  operation  that  was  being  watched 
with  great  solicitude  by  a  dozen  crows  sitting  on  a  fence  a 
hundred  yards  beyond.  We  asked  him  about  the  sugar-bush, 
and  were  told  that  it  wouldn't  do  us  any  good  to  go  there, 
beca-use  it  had  been  a  poor  season  for  sap  and  no  trees  had 
been  tapped.  This  was  a  disappointment  to  the  doctor,  who 
had  set  his  mind  on  sugar.  It  had  its  compensations,  how- 
ever, for  our  steps  were  turned  aside  into  what  proved  to  be 
better  bird-fields.  We  started  the  crows  from  their  roosting- 
place  on  the  fence,  and  they  flapped  away  across  a  stumpy 
pasture,  cawing  their  disapproval  of  our  intrusion.  Far  away 
above  and  beyond  a  little  patch  of  woods  we  saw  a  moving 
speck  in  the  sky.  The  glasses  showed  us  that  it  was  a  soar- 
ing bird.  I  put  it  down  at  once  for  a  great  hawk.  In  a 
moment  I  was  ready  to  admit  myself  stupid,  for  my  com- 
panion, keener  eyed  than  I,  said,  "Turkey-buzzard." 

Buzzards  are  common  enough,  as  I  afterward  found,  in 
southern  Indiana,  and  it  was  curious  that  we  had  not  seen 
them  before.  In  a  few  minutes  two  more  buzzards  appeared, 
and  before  long  the  three  were  circling  directly  over  our 
heads.  From  the  moment  that  they  had  come  into  view  I 
had  not  seen  a  single  stroke  of  the  wing.  The  birds  simply 
rode  on  the  air.  There  was  something  majestic  in  their  soar- 
ing flight.  If  the  turkey-buzzard  were  as  interesting  a  crea- 
ture at  close  range  as  he  is  at  a  distance,  there  are  few  birds 
whose  acquaintance  would  be  better  worth  cultivating. 


In  Southern  Hoosier  Hills  47 

After  a  while  I  saw  one  of  the  buzzards  leisurely  flap  his 
wings,  and  then  launch  out  once  more  upon  his  sailing  flight. 
As  a  matter  of  experiment  I  singled  the  bird  out  with  my  eye 
from  his  fellows,  took  out  my  watch,  and  sat  down  on  a 
stump.  Twenty  minutes  passed  before  that  buzzard  found  it 
necessary  to  gain  new  soaring  power  from  another  wing- 
stroke.  One  of  the  birds  dropped  down  to  a  point  within 
thirty  yards  of  us  just  as  we  were  passing  a  farm-yard.  The 
yard  was  full  of  chickens,  and  while  the  ordinary  hen  is  always 
ready  to  give  a  cluck  of  fear  when  a  bird  as  harmless  as  a 
pigeon  passes  over,  these  fowls  paid  no  attention  whatever  to 
the  big  bird  whose  shadow  was  thrown  over  them.  The 
chickens'  ancestors  doubtless  had  learned  the  harmless  char- 
acter of  the  buzzard,  and  the  knowledge  was  one  of  the 
hereditary  properties  of  these  particular  barn-yard  fowls. 

With  a  courage  born  of  hunger  the  doctor  and  I  rapped 
at  the  door  of  a  farm-house  and  asked  if  we  might  have  some 
dinner.  The  answer  was  a  hearty,  "Yes,  and  welcome,  if 
you'll  wait  until  we  can  cook  it." 

We  were  not  only  willing  to  wait,  but  were  glad  of  a 
chance  to  rest.  We  took  station  on  the  porch,  in  front  of 
which  stood  a  tree  that  was  full  of  woodpecker  holes.  This 
farm-house  was  twelve  miles  from  a  railroad  station,  and  the 
nearest  neighbor  was  three-quarters  of  a  mile  away,  yet  here 
in  this  isolated  spot  were  the  English  sparrows  in  scores.  This 
pest  is  thought  to  be  city-loving,  but  here  it  was  perfectly  at 
home  miles  away  from  its  supposedly  favorite  haunts.  Every 
woodpecker's  hole  in  the  tree  had  a  pair  of  sparrows  in  it, 
and  each  pair  was  busy  building  a  nest.  When  I  thought 
what  those  holes  would  mean  as  home-sites  for  the  bluebirds 
that  we  had  passed  on  our  way,  I  was  ready  to  eject  the 


48         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

Britishers  without  notice.  A  farm-hand  told  me  that  the 
sparrows  had  been  about  the  place  for  three  years.  He  said 
that  the  bluebirds  disappeared  the  year  that  the  foreigners 
arrived. 

The  recollection  of  that  southern  Indiana  farm-house  din- 
ner is  with  me  yet.  We  ate  in  a  long,  narrow  room,  which 
had  at  one  end  a  huge,  old-fashioned  fireplace  with  twelve 
great  cord-wood  sticks  crackling  and  blazing  away  in  its 
ample  interior.  Although  the  sun  was  warm,  there  was  a  chill 
in  the  air  that  made  the  fire  grateful.  I  had  not  seen  the 
equal  of  that  fireplace  blaze  since  early  childhood  in  the  far- 
away East.  Our  hostess  gave  us  to  eat  of  everything  that  a 
farm  produces.  It  was  a  dinner  bountiful  beyond  precedent. 
It  was  a  perfect  delight  to  us  when  we  were  asked  whether 
we  would  have  coffee  or  sassafras  tea.  Of  course  we  took 
sassafras  tea,  and  I  have  nothing  ill  to  say  of  a  beverage 
which  they  told  us  was  on  their  breakfast-table  three  hundred 
and  sixty-five  days  in  the  year,  though  they  confessed,  ''We 
generally  have  coffee  for  dinner." 

We  took  up  the  journey  hotel- ward,  refreshed  in  mind  and 
body.  Time  forbade  us  to  turn  aside  into  bird  byways,  but 
we  had  one  interesting  experience  as  we  jogged  on  our  way. 
When  we  had  turned  into  the  main  road  that  led  straight  to 
our  hotel  we  saw  a  large  hawk  sitting  on  a  telegraph-pole. 
The  bird  allowed  us  to  approach  as  near  as  the  next  pole  to 
him  before  he  showed  any  symptom  of  uneasiness.  There 
we  stopped  and  ogled  him  with  our  glasses.  It  was  a  red- 
tail,  and  the  biggest  one  I  had  ever  seen.  Beyond  a  field  to 
the  left  a  little  white  house  stood  on  a  side-hill.  It  was  about 
two  hundred  yards  away.  A  rail  fence  separated  the  yard  of 
the  house  from  a  roadway  where  a  flock  of  Brahma  chickens 


RED-BELLIED  WOODPECKER 


In  Southern  Hoosier  Hills  49 

was  feeding.  Suddenly  the  hawk  launched  out  and  swept 
across  the  field  toward  the  fowls.  The  big  rooster  saw  the 
bird  coming,  and  uttering  an  alarm  cry,  he  made  for  the  yard 
as  fast  as  his  long  legs  could  carry  him.  The  hens  followed, 
and  helter-skelter  they  went  up  the  hill  toward  the  house. 
The  last  Brahma  had  succeeded  in  getting  through  a  hole  in 
the  latticework  below  the  piazza  just  as  the  hawk  brought  up 
on  the  flooring  a  few  feet  above.  He  sat  there  at  the  door- 
step perfectly  fearless  for  fully  a  minute,  and  then  leisurely 
made  for  the  top  of  a  tree  only  a  few  yards  distant.  The 
last  look  that  we  had  of  the  bird  through  our  glasses  showed 
him  still  hungrily  watching  the  hole. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN   WINTER    FIELDS 

A  crow  was  calling  from  the  Skokie,  while  from  the  oak  at 
the  doorstep  a  bluejay,  in  a  voice  more  grating  than  usual, 
answered  the  salutation  with  the  epithet  ' 'thief,"  twice 
repeated.  It  may  seem  strange  that  the  summons  of  two 
harsh  bird-voices  should  be  potent  enough  to  draw  one  to  the 
outdoor  world  from  the  front  of  a  pile  of  genially  crackling 
birch-logs,  when  the  thermometer  is  dangerously  near  zero. 
There  are  some  people,  however,  to  whom  a  jay  and  his 
jargon,  and  the  call  of  a  bird  as  common  as  a  crow,  are  pre- 
ferred to  the  warmth  of  a  hearth,  though  the  fire  be  of  birch. 
The  same  persons  who  tell  you  that  since  the  English  spar- 
row was  imported  every  other  winged  thing  except  the  mos- 
quito and  the  house-fly  has  disappeared,  will  tell  you  also, 
even  if  they  admit  the  presence  of  a  few  songsters  in  summer, 
that  there  are  no  more  birds  in  winter  than  there  are  in  last 
year's  nests.  There  are  winter  birds,  however,  and  interesting 
winter  birds  at  that.  Those  who  will  take  the  trouble  and 
who  will  learn  how  to  look,  will  find  them  lurking  in  the 
shrubbery  just  beyond  the  snow  which  banks  the  doorstep,  or 
it  may  be,  calling  with  voices  as  blithe  as  of  the  summer  from 
the  bare  apple-boughs  of  the  orchard. 

When  the  crow  called  me  that  cold  January  morning,  I 
struck  out  for  a  tramp  through  the  Skokie  swamp,  and  all  the 
country  that  lay  between  it  and  the  hill  on  the  east.  It  was 
a  bitter  morning,  and  even  the  owl,  hidden  in  the  hole 

5° 


In  Winter  Fields  51 

in  the  oak,  "for  all  his  feathers  was  a-cold."  I  halted 
at  the  foot  of  the  dooryard  steps,  and  cast  an  anxious  look 
upward  to  see  if  the  jay  which  I  had  heard  from  the  fireside 
had  deserted.  I  am  superstitious  enough  to  think  that  it 
augurs  well  for  the  success  of  a  bird-hunting  trip  to  see  some 
feathered  character  at  the  start.  This  bit  of  superstition  is, 
I  believe,  common  to  all  bird-students.  The  jay  was  still 
there.  It  is  perhaps  the  commonest  bird  of  this  locality, 
both  in  winter  and  summer.  You  can  always  count  upon  the 
jay's  doing  something  new.  This  doorstep  jay  did  some- 
thing decidedly  new — he  dropped  from  his  beak  to  the  ground 
at  my  feet  a  round,  flat,  smooth  stone  of  the  diameter  of  an 
inch.  It  was  one  of  the  kind  of  which  thousands  may  be 
found  along  the  lake  shore.  I  should  judge,  from  a  long  and 
somewhat  intimate  acquaintance  with  jays,  that  they  have  not 
the  regular  habit  of  making  stone-boats  of  their  beaks.  I 
picked  the  stone  up,  and  asked  the  bird  what  he  had  intended 
to  do  with  it.  He  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  looked  down 
on  me,  and  screamed  "Thief"  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  I 
agree  with  Bradford  Torrey  that  this  bird  says  "thief"  much 
more  plainly  than  he  says  "jay."  Thus  he  characterizes  him- 
self as  well  as  if  he  spoke  English  more  fluently.  The  jay  is 
essentially  a  thief,  and  seems  to  take  delight  in  proclaiming 
the  fact  to  the  world. 

On  the  outskirts  of  Highland  Park  there  is  a  patch  of 
dense  undergrowth.  Before  the  heavier  timber  was  cut 
down,  the  place  was  known  as  Hamilton's  Woods.  Some 
years  ago  these  acres  of  underbrush  were  divided  into  town 
lots,  and  a  new  city  was  to  spring  up.  One  house  and  an 
ambitious  cement  sidewalk  with  plank  extensions  are  all  that 
remain  as  monuments  to  the  purpose  and  hope  of  the  pro- 


52          Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

jectors.  This  town-site  is  on  the  very  summit  of  the  ridge 
which  slopes  down  westward  to  the  Skokie.  Far  off  beyond 
the  stretches  of  coarse  swamp-grass  one  sees,  blue  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  woods  that  skirt  the  river.  From  this  spot  it  is 
that  sunsets  may  be  seen  having  in  them  something  of  the 
higher  glories  of  color  that  are  associated  with  the  close 
of  day  in  the  hill  countries  far  removed  from  the  level  plains 
of  Illinois.  The  undergrowth  is  not  uninhabited.  There, 
summer  and  winter,  live  the  rabbits,  a  squirrel  or  two,  the 
red-headed  and  downy  woodpeckers,  the  jay  and  the  chicka- 
dee, and  the  not  infrequent  quail.  In  summer  this  spot  is 
the  haunt  of  the  scarlet  tanager,  the  catbird,  the  brown 
thrasher,  and  the  oriole. 

When  I  reached  Hamilton's  Woods  on  that  winter's  day, 
I  stopped  to  examine  some  bits  of  bird  architecture;  for 
though  man  failed  to  build  here,  there  are  enough  bird  homes 
in  the  patch  to  give  evidence  of  its  excellence  as  a  dwelling 
place.  In  a  hazel-bush,  not  more  than  twenty  feet  from  the 
highroad,  I  found  the  deserted  nest  of  a  catbird.  The  July 
previous  I  had  watched  the  outgoing  of  the  fledgeling  family 
from  this  little  home.  I  had  reached  a  point  within  five  feet 
of  the  nest  when  I  was  struck  by  the  fact  that  it  was  moving. 
There  was  a  rustling  of  the  dry  oak  leaves  which  formed  its 
base,  and  the  twigs  above  were  swaying  in  a  way  which  pre- 
cluded the  possibility  of  the  movement  being  the  work  of  the 
wind.  Then  through  my  mind  flashed  the  thought  of  Dr. 
Abbott's  tales  of  winter  catbirds  in  New  Jersey,  and  of  the 
story  I  had  heard  of  one  of  the  birds  which  for  a  whole  winter 
did  not  go  nearer  the  equator  than  South  Chicago.  Was  it 
possible  that  one  of  these  gray,  scolding,  querulous  creatures 
was  revisiting  its  summer  homeland  marking  the  exception 


In  Winter  Fields  53 

which  proved  the  Spanish  proverb,  "There  are  no  birds  in 
last  year's  nests"?  I  made  a  cautious  step  or  two,  and  the 
mystery  was  explained.  A  piercing  little  black  eye,  with  a 
world  of  fright  in  its  narrow  compass,  was  peering  at  me  from 
above  the  edge  of  the  nest.  Then  there  was  more  rustling, 
and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  as  it  flashed  down  the 
stem  of  the  hazel-bush.  Then  there  was  disappearance  and 
quiet.  It  was  a  mouse,  of  course.  He  had  taken  possession 
of  the  catbird's  summer  home  for  a  winter  residence.  There 
was  too  strong  a  temptation  to  resist  to  pry  into  the  house- 
keeping of  Master  Mouse.  He  had  "bulged  up"  the  inner 
bark  lining  of  the  structure  a  little,  and  beneath  this  he 
placed  his  store  of  provender,  which  consisted  of  corn  and 
hazelnuts.  There  was  no  corn-field  within  fifty  rods,  and  this 
diminutive  four-footed  "beastie"  must  have  made  many  a 
weary  journey  for  his  corn  supply.  The  hazelnuts  were  close 
at  hand  and  in  abundance. 

It  is  hard  work  to  get  away  from  a  jay.  Even  though  he 
be  at  a  distance,  his  voice  is  a  constant  reminder  that  he  is  on 
earth.  I  have  said  that  the  jay  is  essentially  a  thief — now  for 
proof  positive.  A  pair  of  these  steel-blue  coated  creatures 
had  been  watching  my  operations  on  the  catbird's  nest  with 
apparent  interest,  though  I  had  given  them  little  attention, 
because  of  the  greater  matter  in  hand.  I  had  walked  away 
from  the  thorn-bush  to  a  distance  of  about  fifty  yards,  when  a 
jay  call  that  had  something  of  jubilation  in  it,  caused  me  to 
turn.  The  two  birds  were  engaged  in  rifling  the  mouse's 
larder.  I  was  conscience-stricken  at  being  the  cause  of  the 
loss  of  food,  so  I  drove  the  birds  away.  I  found  that  they 
had  secured  already  a  large  share  of  the  supply,  and  I  have 
little  doubt  that  they  returned  later  to  complete  the  robbery. 


54         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

A  little  log  hut,  built  after  the  fashion  of  fifty  years  ago, 
stands  at  a  corner  of  Hamilton's  Woods,  upon  what  was 
intended  for  a  town  lot.  The  path  leads  away  from  the  high- 
way at  this  point  and  strikes  down  straight  toward  the  Skokie. 
A  pair  of  downy  woodpeckers  flew  over  the  path,  and  began 
playing  hide-and-seek  around  the  bole  of  an  oak.  The  downy 
woodpecker  is  everlastingly  cheerful.  Whenever  there  is  a 
break  in  the  interest  of  a  winter  morning's  walk,  he  is  certain 
to  appear  and  do  what  he  can  to  enliven  the  occasion.  This 
morning  he  did  more.  One  of  the  pair  went  to  the  tip  of  a 
tree,  and  while  my  eye  was  following  his  course  along  the 
branch  there  came  within  the  range  of  vision  ten  great  birds  far 
up  in  the  sky  and  flying  westward.  They  were  wild  geese. 
There  was  the  gander  leader,  and  trailing  along  forming  the 
V-shaped  wedge  were  the  followers.  I  blessed  the  downy  for 
calling  my  attention  to  the  geese.  It  was  the  middle  of  Janu- 
ary; the  thermometer  was  close  to  zero,  and  yet  here  was  a 
flock  of  geese  in  northern  Illinois.  The  birds  were  heading 
for  the  swamp.  What  two  months  before  had  been  a  stream 
in  the  center  of  the  marsh  was  now  a  long,  glistening,  ice  rib- 
bon, with  here  and  there,  as  it  were,  a  white  knot  tied,  where 
the  rushes  parted  a  little  to  the  right  and  left.  The  ten  geese 
settled  slowly  toward  the  swamp,  and  then  rose  again  at  the 
direction  of  their  leader,  who  doubtless  said,  "No  rest  nor 
forage  here,  but  I  know  of  a  corn-field  beyond." 

I  put  these  ten  birds  down  as  geese  indeed,  for  forgetting 
the  warmth  and  food  plenty  in  the  South,  and  for  trusting  for 
a  living  to  the  poor  pickings  of  a  frozen,  storm-swept  country. 
In  a  few  moments  I  found  there  were  other  geese.  A  second 
V-shaped  flock  of  thirteen  individuals  passed  over  in  the  wake 
of  the  leading  ten.  Apparently  there  was  some  trouble  in  the 


In  Winter  Fields  55 

second  group,  for  the  birds  kept  changing  sides;  the  two 
immediately  behind  the  leader  moved  one  in  the  place  of  the 
other,  and  then  the  maneuver  was  repeated  at  the  middle  of 
the  gathering,  and  then  at  the  extreme  rear.  This  continued 
for  some  time,  and  there  came  into  my  mind  the  irresistible 
conclusion  that  the  old  gray  gander  leader  was  telling  his 
followers  that  five  birds  on  one  side  and  seven  on  the  other 
of  the  V  was  an  uncouth  flying  order,  and  that  in  trying  to 
get  one  bird  to  change  over,  his  orders  were  so  misunderstood 
that  a  general  mix-up  resulted.  Finally,  however,  before  the 
flock  was  lost  to  sight,  the  old  fellow  succeeded  in  getting 
things  straightened  out. 

A  man  in  a  brickyard  near  the  swamp  said  that  the  geese 
were  coming  from  the  lake  because  a  storm  was  brewing. 
There  was  no  storm  for  a  week,  however.  The  same  man 
said  that  he  had  seen  a  thousand  geese  "a.  few  days  before." 
Pinned  down,  however,  he  admitted  that  the  "few  days 
before"  was  in  November. 

The  bluffs  against  which  the  waves  of  Lake  Michigan  beat 
just  north  of  Chicago  are  cut  by  deep  ravines.  In  the  sum- 
mer these  ravines  are  thickly  tenanted  by  birds.  All  through 
June  they  ring  with  the  notes  of  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak, 
the  wood  thrush  and  the  brown  thrasher.  I  determined  one 
winter  morning,  in  the  same  month  as  that  of  my  Skokietrip, 
though  in  another  year,  to  find  out  what  one  of  these  great 
gullies  held  in  winter  that  was  of  interest  to  a  bird-lover.  The 
weather  conditions  of  the  night  before  and  of  the  early  morn- 
ing were  unusual  for  midwinter.  At  midnight  the  air  was 
warm  and  heavy;  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  there  was  a 
thunder-storm  raging  which  would  not  have  been  out  of  place 
in  late  April.  The  thermometer  marked  seventy  degrees,  and 


56         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

the  lightning  played  through  a  heavy  downfall  of  rain.  At 
seven  o'clock  there  were  signs  of  clearing.  The  sun  peeped 
out  through  a  break  in  a  cloud  bank  that  hung  low  over 
Michigan.  An  hour  later  as  I  stood  on  the  lake  shore  ready 
to  begin  the  threading  of  the  ravine,  there  was  no  longer  any 
rain  and  the  air  was  beginning  to  take  on  a  crispness. 

The  first  glimpse  of  bird-life  came  just  before  I  turned 
inland.  The  advance  guard  of  what  became  a  great  army  of 
gulls  crossed  the  horizon.  They  were  herring  gulls,  and  in 
color  were  in  keeping  with  the  gray  day.  A  flock  of  ducks 
flew  rapidly  along  below  the  gulls  and  parallel  to  the  shore 
line.  They  were  moving  like  thought  and  soon  left  the  gulls 
far  behind.  I  recognized  them  as  old  squaws,  wanderers  from 
the  far  off  Arctic.  In  the  middle  of  winter  the  old  squaw  is 
not  an  uncommon  bird  at  the  southern  end  of  Lake  Michigan. 
When  the  lake  is  well  filled  with  ice  these  northern  ducks 
search  for  the  stretches  of  open  water,  and  there  they  seek 
rest  and  food.  A  gunner  who  took  station  at  the  end  of  the 
government  pier  in  Chicago  one  winter's  day,  killed  a  hundred 
old  squaws  in  a  few  hours'  time.  When  the  killing  was  com- 
plete, he  found  out  that  the  birds  were  unfit  for  food,  and  the 
bodies  of  the  beautiful  creatures  were  thrown  away.  I  left 
the  lake  and  went  into  the  ravine.  On  the  bank  of  the  little 
brook  at  the  bottom  the  air  was  warm  and  still.  The  stream 
was  ice-bound  only  in  places.  The  locality  was  like  one  of  the 
constant  succession  of  scenes  that  are  found  in  a  ramble  in 
New  England.  Sadly  enough,  however,  June  sees  this  ravine 
brook  dried  up,  and  the  July  sun  withers  the  flowers  at  its  edge 
and  the  foliage  on  its  banks.  The  ravine's  beauty  largely 
will  pass,  while  in  New  England  the  mountain-fed  streams 
will  keep  the  summer  blossoms  bright  and  the  leaves  green. 


GOLDFINCH. 


In  Winter  Fields  57 

I  startled  a  junco  from  his  feeding  place  on  the  brook's 
bank.  He  was  all  alone.  I  think  that  was  the  only  time  in 
my  field  experiences  that  I  have  found  a  junco  separated  from 
his  fellows.  While  the  books  put  this  little  snowbird  down 
as  a  common  winter  resident  in  this  latitude,  I  have  found  it 
in  the  heart  of  winter  .only  on  three  occasions,  and  then  in 
limited  numbers.  A  few  yards  beyond  the  junco's  foraging 
place  I  found  the  empty  tenement  of  a  red-eyed  vireo.  The 
vireo  had  used  a  piece  of  newspaper  as  a  part  of  his  building 
material.  The  print  was  still  clear,  and  I  found  the  date-line 
of  a  dispatch  'at  the  heading  of  a  short  article.  The  date  was 
July  3,  of  the  year  before.  This  was  proof  beyond  question 
that  the  vireo  had  begun  housekeeping  rather  later  in  the 
season  than  is  usual  with  his  tribe.  Judging  from  other 
empty  nests  that  I  found  close  at  hand  the  vireo  had  pleas- 
ant neighbors,  the  redstarts  and  the  yellow  warblers.  The 
birds  must  have  found  this  ravine  an  ideal  summer  resort, 
plenty  of  shade,  good  water,  lake  breezes,  and  a  larder  well 
supplied  with  all  the  insect  delicacies  of  the  season. 

The  pathway  of  the  stream  was  lined  in  places  with  snow 
which  the  thaw  had  spared.  I  found  that  I  was  not  the  first 
traveler  of  the  morning.  A  rabbit  had  preceded  me,  and 
apparently  he  had  gone  a  long  way  from  home,  for  the  marks 
of  his  footsteps  led  on  until  the  ravine  was  at  an  end.  A  jay 
resented  my  intrusion  into  the  ravine.  The  jay  finds  his  per- 
fect setting  in  a  winter  day.  His  coloring  makes  the  bird 
seem  like  a  bit  broken  from  the  blue  sky  and  from  the  edge 
of  a  cold  gray  cloud.  When  I  finally  reached  the  plain  above 
the  ravine,  I  found  that  a  blizzard  was  raging.  In  the  shel- 
tered depths  I  had  not  known  of  the  change  in  the  weather. 
Within  an  hour  the  worst  storm  of  the  year  was  sweeping 


58         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

over  the  lake.  It  was  on  that  day,  which  had  opened  with  a 
spring-like  mildness,  that  the  steamship  Chicora,  plying  Lake 
Michigan,  went  down  to  destruction.  The  air  was  filled  with 
particles  of  snow  that  cut  like  sleet.  I  reached  a  field  finally 
where  the  storm  had  full  sweep,  and  was  compelled  to  brace 
myself  to  resist  its  force.  I  edged  into  it  as  best  I  could,  and 
before  I  had  made  many  yards  I  found  that  even  in  the 
tempest  I  had  bird  companions.  A  flock  of  snow  buntings 
were  whirling  over  a  depression  in  the  prairie.  The  wind 
tossed  them  about  almost  at  will,  but  in  some  way  they  man- 
aged to  hold  their  place  over  the  same  low  spot  in  the  field. 
They  went  to  the  ground  finally,  but  as  I  passed  them  they 
rose  in  a  body  and  went  hurtling  down  the  wind.  What  I 
saw  was  but  little  more  than  some  streaks  in  the  snow-laden 
air.  A  blizzard  is  of  but  little  more  moment  to  a  snow  bunt- 
ing than  a  zephyr.  How  the  wind  did  hurl  them!  They 
were  not  more  than  four  feet  above  the  ground,  and  were 
being  borne  straight  at  a  close  board  fence.  I  thought  they 
were  about  to  be  dashed  headlong  against  it,  but  the  buntings 
had  ridden  on  the  breast  of  a  storm  before.  When  within  a 
few  feet  of  the  fence  they  rose  and  went  scuttling  over  the 
top,  showing  white  against  the  treetops  beyond. 

I  was  forced  by  the  storm  to  follow  in  the  wake  of  the 
snow  buntings.  I  had  been  wondering  all  the  morning  at  the 
absence  of  the  chickadee.  I  found  him  and  a  dozen  of  his 
brothers  working  their  way  through  the  branches  of  a  grove 
of  oaks  near  the  little  railroad  station  of  Ravinia.  Wind  and 
weather  are  nothing  to  the  chickadees.  They  must  feel  some- 
thing like  a  contempt  for  their  relatives  who  must  needs  go 
south  at  the  first  pinch  of  Jack  Frost's  fingers.  The  chicka- 


In  Winter  Fields  59 

dee  finds  shelter  and  plenty  of  food  in  our  winter  woods. 
They  eat  and  lisp  their  little  note  until  a  touch  of  warmth 
comes  out  of  the  south,  and  then,  though  their  main  occupa- 
tion still  will  be  eating,  they  will  utter  a  fuller  note  and 
become  modest  members  of  the  great  spring  choir. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON   THE   TRAIL   OF   POKAGON 

Pokagon,  hereditary  chief  of  the  Pottawattomies,  until  his 
death  three  years  ago  lived  in  a  hut  which  stood  among  the 
fire-blasted  remains  of  what  was  once  a  great  Michigan  pine 
forest.  Pokagon  was  writing  a  book.  He  toiled  early  and 
late  at  the  narrative  which  he  said  would  give  for  the  first 
time  the  Indian's  side  of  the  story  of  the  Chicago  massacre. 
The  chief  rejected  the  word  "massacre,"  and  called  the  affair 
which  took  place  under  the  old  cottonwood  tree  on  the  lake 
shore,  a  fight — a  square,  manly,  open  fight. 

One  early  February  day  in  the  year  1897  a  Chicago  news- 
paper commissioned  me  to  seek  out  the  old  Pottawattomie  in 
his  forest  retreat,  and  to  get  from  him  an  outline  of  the  story 
which  he  was  writing.  I  have  never  been  quite  able  to  decide 
which  I  found  the  more  interesting,  the  two  hours'  talk  with 
the  aged  Pottawattomie  at  his  fireside  in  the  wilderness,  or  the 
drive  to  his  home  over  snow-covered  fields  and  through  the 
winter  woods.  Almost  every  mile  of  that  ride  had  in  it  some 
bird  surprise.  The  thermometer  marked  zero,  and  the  dis- 
tance from  Hartford,  Michigan,  to  Pokagon's  home,  twenty- 
four  miles,  was  made  in  an  open  sleigh.  The  air  was  perfectly 
still,  however,  and  with  plenty  of  wraps  the  cold  did  not  strike 
deep.  Had  I  known  it  I  could  have  shortened  the  journey 
to  four  miles  by  leaving  the  cars  at  another  station,  but  I  did 
not  make  this  discovery  until  the  train  which  had  brought  me 
to  Hartford  was  whisking  away  around  a  hill  in  the  distance. 

60 


On  the  Trail  of  Pokagon  61 

I  have  never  been  sorry  that  I  left  the  warm  Pullman  for  the 
cold  of  the  open  fields. 

The  proprietor  of  a  Hartford  livery  stable  agreed  to  drive 
me  to  Pokagon's  dwelling  and  back  again  in  time  to  take  the 
late  night  train  to  Chicago.  It  was  a  matter  of  forty-eight 
miles  out  and  back,  and  with  zero  conditions  and  the  snow 
over  the  fences  all  the  way,  we  flattered  ourselves  that  we 
were  showing  some  little  fortitude  in  undertaking  the  trip. 
When  we  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  village  we  met  a  party 
of  Indians  occupying  a  box  sleigh.  One  of  them  was  Poka- 
gon's son  upon  whom  now  rests  his  father's  mantle.  We 
stopped  and  talked  to  the  Indians  for  a  few  minutes,  and 
while  we  were  getting  some  hints  for  the  shortening  of  our 
journey  two  woodpeckers  flew  over  our  heads  and  flattened 
themselves  against  the  bole  of  a  big  beech  tree  at  the  side  of 
the  road.  I  never  had  seen  the  species  before,  but  I  knew 
what  it  was.  I  wondered  if  the  Indians  were  true  enough  to 
the  traditions  of  their  knowledge  of  wild  life  in  all  its  forms 
to  give  me  the  name  of  these  stranger  birds.  I  called  the 
chief's  son's  attention  to  them  and  asked  him  what  they 
were.  The  two  visitors  were  showing  just  the  tops  of  their 
heads  around  the  tree  trunk.  The  Indian  looked  at  them 
and  said  simply,  " Winter  woodpeckers."  I  asked  him 
whether  he  never  saw  them  in  summer  and  he  answered, 
1  'No."  Then  he  went  on  to  tell  me  that  there  were  some 
woodpeckers  that  were  "both  summer  and  winter  woodpeck- 
ers. ' '  As  members  of  this  class  he  described  accurately  the 
downy  woodpecker,  and  its  larger  brother,  the  hairy.  The 
red-head,  he  said,  was  also  sometimes  a  winter  woodpecker. 
The  bird  on  the  tree,  he  informed  me,  did  not  come  every  win- 
ter, or  if  it  did  come,  he  did  not  always  see  it.  The  Indian 


62         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

had  no  definite  name  for  the  bird  but  he  knew  its  habits 
thoroughly.  The  books  contain  nothing  better  nor  truer  than 
this  Pottawattomie's  descendant's  account  of  the  "winter  and 
summer  woodpeckers/' 

The  birds  which  were  making  a  breakfast  table  of  the 
beech  tree  were  Arctic  three-toed  woodpeckers,  an  orange- 
pated  northern  visitor  which  is  not  uncommon  in  hard  winters 
along  the  eastern  shore  of  southern  Lake  Michigan.  Before 
we  parted  company  with  the  Indians,  a  downy  woodpecker 
came  to  the  beech  and  began  chasing  the  Arctic  visitors 
around  the  bole.  It  seemed  to  be  on  the  part  of  the  downy 
more  of  a  frolic  than  a  fight,  and  I  did  not  feel  called  upon 
to  interfere.  The  downy  woodpecker,  while  he  is  the  smallest 
of  his  tribe,  is  far  from  being  the  least  in  interest.  I  know 
no  more  cheerful  and  companionable  bird  than  this  little 
black  and  white  fellow  with  the  red  feather  in  his  cap.  Cold 
cannot  chill  his  optimism  nor  heat  abate  one  jot  of  his 
industry. 

Our  course  toward  Pokagon's  home  took  us  northwest. 
The  roads  in  many  places  were  unbroken,  but  our  strong, 
willing  horses  took  us  through  the  drifts  with  scarce  an  effort. 
At  times  we  left  the  road  altogether  and  drove  across  lots  and 
through  the  open  woods.  At  the  edge  of  a  small  timber 
patch  we  passed  a  spring  with  a  thread  of  a  stream  running 
away  from  its  boiling  pot.  It  was  the  first  spring  that  I  had 
seen  for  years  for  they  are  practically  unknown  in  the  prairie 
country.  The  little  stream  was  tumbling  over  a  bed  of  peb- 
bles and  Jack  Frost  had  been  unable  to  fetter  it.  Some 
lisping  notes  fell  from  a  maple  whose  boughs  overhung  the 
water.  In  the  tree  I  found  four  golden-crowned  kinglets. 
The  kinglet  is  a  winter  bird  in  northern  Illinois,  I  am  told, 


On  the  Trail  of  Pokagon  63 

but  with  all  my  searching  I  had  never  been  able  to  find  one 
after  Thanksgiving  Day.  The  bird  is  the  smallest  of  the 
feathered  kingdom  barring  only  the  ruby-throated  hummer. 

There  is  an  interest  that  attaches  to  the  kinglet  aside  from 
its  beauty  and  its  cheerful  habit  of  life.  Aristotle  knew  and 
named  this  bird  more  than  three  centuries  before  Christ.  The 
Greek  philosopher  was  probably  the  first  bird  student.  He 
certainly  was  the  first  whose  books  have  come  to  us. 
Aristotle  made  all  sorts  of  curious  mistakes,  but  we  must 
honor  him  as  a  pioneer.  He  met  the  little  kinglet  with  its 
golden  crown  and  named  it  Tyrannos,  the  tyrant.  He  so 
named  it  from  its  golden  crown  of  royalty  which  then  as 
to-day  was  too  often  synonymous  with  tyranny.  The  bird 
retains  the  name  in  the  form  of  kinglet,  as  it  retains  the 
golden  crown  until  this  day.  The  most  interesting  study  of 
Aristotle's  treatise  on  birds  has  been  given  us  by  W.  Warde 
Fowler,  in  his  "Summer  Studies  of  Birds  and  Books."  The 
Michigan  kinglets  were  "t-zeeing,  t-zeeing, "  energetically  all 
the  while  that  they  were  picking  grubs  out  of  the  bark.  I 
don't  think  that  I  ever  ran  across  a  silent  golden-crowned 
kinglet.  Their  utterance  is  not  loud  but  it  is  constant,  and 
as  they  are  always  picking  up  food  I  am  afraid  that  the 
otherwise  well-mannered  little  king  is  open  to  the  reproach  of 
talking  with  his  mouth  full. 

It  is  curious  that  on  one  shore  of  Lake  Michigan  birds 
should  be  abundant  in  winter  which  on  the  opposite  shore 
are  accounted  rare.  I  have  said  that  the  Michigan  kinglets 
were  my  first  winter  birds  of  the  kind.  The  white-breasted 
nuthatches  that  I  met  on  that  trip  to  Pokagon's  home  were 
also  the  first  birds  of  their  kind  that  I  had  seen  in  the  winter 
months.  The  nuthatches  certainly  winter  in  northern  Illi- 


64         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

nois  but  it  cannot  be  that  they  occur  in  anything  like  the 
numbers  in  which  they  are  found  in  the  same  latitude  in 
Michigan.  Friends  have  occasionally  told  me  of  the  visits 
paid  by  white-breasted  nuthatches  to  January  breakfast 
tables  spread  with  suet  for  the  benefit  of  the  winter  birds.  It 
was  never  my  luck,  although  I  have  made  many  a  cold-weather 
trip  for  the  purpose,  to  find  one  of  these  feathered  acrobats 
within  range  of  my  rambles.  It  may  go  without  saying,  per- 
haps, that  the  bird  is  abundant  on  the  west  side  of  the  lake  in 
fall  and  spring. 

While  we  kept  to  the  highways  we  found  the  nuthatches 
on  nearly  every  tree  that  grew  along  our  course.  They  flew 
from  trunk  to  trunk  as  though  they  were  using  the  line  of  the 
road  as  a  guide  for  a  journey,  but  were  making  frequent  stops 
at  eating-houses  along  the  way.  The  nuthatches  were  as 
silent  as  the  kinglets  were  noisy.  Only  occasionally  would  a 
vigorous  "quank,  quank, "  break  the  stillness  of  the  frosty 
air. 

From  the  time  we  left  the  village  behind  I  had  seen 
almost  constantly  large  flocks  of  birds  flying  over  the  fields 
but  always  keeping  beyond  the  limit  of  identification.  I 
asked  my  driver  friend  what  they  were,  and  he  said,  "Snow- 
birds." When  I  asked  him  what  kind  of  snowbirds,  he  said, 
"Why,  just  snowbirds."  By  and  by  when  the  road  turned 
suddenly  around  the  corner  of  some  woods  we  came  on  to  a 
flock  of  the  birds  feeding  in  some  bushes  and  on  the  ground 
which  had  been  cleared  of  snow  for  some  distance  by  the 
wind.  The  birds  were  not  more  than  forty  feet  from  us,  and 
there  were  several  hundreds  of  them.  I  asked  my  companion 
to  take  a  good  look  and. tell  me  what  they  were.  He  looked 
and  again  said,  ' '  Snowbirds, ' '  adding  that  that  was  what  every- 


On  the  Trail  of  Pokagon  65 

body  thereabouts  called  them.  The  birds  were  Canadian  or 
tree  sparrows.  I  will  give  the  good  Michigan  folk  credit  for 
better  judgment  in  the  naming  of  this  bird  than  had  the 
people  who  were  responsible  for  dubbing  the  junco,  snowbird. 
The  tree  sparrow  is  much  more  of  a  snowbird  than  is  the 
junco.  As  a  matter  of  fact  nearly  all  the  juncoes  leave  us 
at  the  first  sight  of  a  snowflake  while  tree  sparrows  stay  with 
us  and  maintain  their  cheerfulness  no  matter  how  loud  the 
wind  howls  nor  how  deep  the  snow  lies.  Not  infrequently 
juncoes  and  tree  sparrows  are  found  together  but  this  is  dur- 
ing the  migrations  or  at  the  extreme  southern  limit  of  the 
tree  sparrow's  winter  journeyings.  Certain  it  is  that  no 
juncoes  had  the  hardihood  to  stay  with  those  Michigan  tree 
sparrows  during  that  February  month.  Before  the  day  was 
over  I  had  seen  four  great  flocks  of  the  sparrows  at  close 
range,  and  not  a  junco  feather  did  I  see. 

Upon  a  dead  tree  in  a  field,  with  its  shapely  form  silhou- 
etted against  the  sky,  sat  a  sharp-shinned  hawk.  A  flock  of 
the  tree  sparrows  was  flitting  about  the  tops  of  the  snow- 
banks not  many  yards  beyond  his  perch.  I  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  that  the  villian's  maw  already  contained 
several  of  the  birds.  At  any  rate  his  hunger  must  have  been 
pretty  well  satisfied  for  in  the  midst  of  plenty  he  made  no 
attempt  to  secure  food.  I  have  confessed  elsewhere  to  a  sort 
of  liking  for  the  hawk;  but  the  hawk  is  one  thing  and  the 
sharp-shinned  hawk  is  another.  The  scientists  of  Uncle 
Sam's  agricultural  department  tell  us  that  the  sharp-shinned 
hawk  is  a  double-dyed  rascal,  and  they  prove  their  point  to 
my  satisfaction.  The  Cooper's  hawk  is  another  villain  and 
with  his  sharp-shinned  friend  has  an  inordinate  appetite  for 
song  birds  and  small  chickens.  We  may  make  friends  of  the 


66         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

rest  of  the  hawks,  the  scientists  tell  us,  without  laying  our- 
selves open  to  the  charge  of  keeping  bad  company. 

The  hawk  sitting  on  his  watch  tower  was  the  last  glimpse 
of  bird  life  that  we  had  before  Pokagon's  hut  came  into  view. 
Just  before  we  reached  it  our  horses  and  sleigh  became  fast 
in  a  huge  snowdrift.  The  horses  were  in  it  much  more  than 
leg  deep  and  all  their  efforts  to  free  themselves  and  the  cutter 
were  unavailing.  Soon  we  saw  someone  come  to  the  door- 
way of  the  house.  It  was  Pokagon.  He  looked  across  the 
snow  and  seeing  our  predicament  came  plowing  through 
the  big  drifts  to  the  rescue.  He  had  just  the  trace  of  a  smile 
on  his  face  as  he  went  to  the  back  of  the  sleigh  and  put  his 
shoulder  well  under  the  box.  There  was  a  heave  forward 
and  upward,  an  encouraging  word  to  the  horses,  and  with  a 
great  lurch  the  cutter  was  free.  Pokagon  was  old  but  he 
had  a  deal  of  strength  left  in  his  arms,  legs  and  body,  and  a 
talk  with  him  showed  likewise  that  no  weakness  had  entered 
into  his  brain. 

I  am  tempted  to  forget  momentarily  that  this  is  a  book  of 
birds  and  tell  a  little  something  of  this  visit  to  the  fireside 
of  the  famous  Pottawattomie  chief.  He  told  the  pathetic 
story  of  his  attempt  to  get  from  the  United  States  what  was 
due  the  remnant  of  his  people  under  their  treaty  rights.  He 
told  of  violated  promises  and  of  perfidy  whose  recital  would 
have  better  place  in  another  "  Century  of  Dishonor"  than  in 
this  little  volume.  It  was  Pokagon's  father  who  sold  for 
three  cents  an  acre  the  land  on  which  now  stands  the  city  of 
Chicago.  On  that  winter  day  in  Michigan,  the  chief  said: 
"They  tell  me  that  vast  sums  now  are  paid  for  a  few  feet  of 
what  was  then  sold  for  a  trifle  by  the  square  mile.  I  inherited 
my  father's  rights  and  I  also  inherited  the  care  of  my  people. 


On  the  Trail  of  Pokagon  67 

They  are  scattered  all  through  the  country  now  and  are  few 
in  numbers.  The  tribal  relation  is  broken  by  their  becoming 
citizens  of  the  United  States.  All  this  has  weakened  my 
efforts  to  do  for  them  what  might  be  done.  There  is  much 
more  money  due  from  the  white  people  and  I  shall  try  to  get 
it.  I  may  die  before  success  comes;  if  I  do,  my  eldest 
son  will  take  up  what  little  there  is  left  of  my  authority  and 
the  much  that  there  is  left  of  my  troubles." 

In  his  youth  Pokagon  hunted  deer  on  the  site  of  the  hut 
in  which  he  told  his  troubles  that  day.  The  old  fellow  knew 
Nature  like  a  book.  I  drew  him  out  on  the  subject  of  birds 
and  mammals.  When  I  spoke  of  my  interest  in  birds  and 
asked  him  if  he  knew  them  well  he  smiled  a  little  and  asked 
me  if  I  had  never  read  his  writings  on  the  birds.  Then  it 
was  that  I  felt  uncomfortable  in  being  forced  to  confess  that 
I  had  not  had  the  pleasure.  Pokagon  then  told  me  his  legend 
of  the  robin,  which  I  have  since  seen  in  birch-bark  book  form, 
and  his  story  of  the  days  when  the  chimney  swifts  dwelt 
in  hollow  trees  and  went  in  and  out  like  black  clouds  and 
with  a  "roar  of  wings  like  the  mutter  of  thunder." 

We  left  the  old  Pottawattomie  at  dusk  with  a  sort  of  a  sad- 
ness on  our  spirits.  The  drive  back  to  Hartford  was  under 
the  glittering  stars  of  a  cloudless  sky.  Pokagon  had  cared 
for  the  inner  cravings  of  his  guests  both  man  and  beast  and 
our  rested  and  refreshed  horses  homeward  bound  needed 
neither  the  urging  of  voice  nor  whip.  As  we  sped  onward 
through  the  darkness,  the  thought  that  I  was  through  with 
the  birds  for  the  day  came  into  my  mind.  No  sooner  was  the 
thought  framed  than  from  a  wood  by  the  roadside  came  the 
loud  hoot  of  an  owl,  as  if  to  say,  "Day  or  night,  you  cannot 
get  away  from  us." 


CHAPTER  VII 

SOME    ODD    BITS    OF   BIRD    LIFE 

Somewhere  in  the  woods  west  of  Highland  Park,  Illinois, 
there  lives  a  crow  that  bears  on  his  back  a  pure  white  mark 
of  the  size  and  shape  of  a  silver  dollar.  "Jim,"  for  so  I've 
named  him,  seems  to  know  that  he  is  distinguished  above 
other  birds  and  as  a  result  he  is  much  shyer  than  his  brother 
crows.  I  ran  across  this  crow  curio  in  the  winter  of  1899.  I 
have  met  him  several  times  since  then  and  I  have  satisfied 
myself  that  certain  of  the  bird's  characteristics  are  directly 
traceable  to  the  big  white  spot  on  his  back  as  the  first  cause. 
Jim  has  learned  now  that  if  he  wishes  any  comfort  in  life  he 
must  flock  by  himself.  There  is  no  doubt  in  the  minds  of  his 
fellow  crows  that  white-spotted  Jim  is  a  freak.  They  keep 
him  always  at  the  distance  of  a  big  field's  width,  and  any 
attempt  on  his  part  to  approach  nearer  is  met  by  assault. 

The  first  time  that  I  saw  my  friend  Jim  he  was  rounding  the 
edge  of  a  belt  of  timber  and  making  for  a  plowed  field  in 
which  four  other  crows  were  feeding.  From  their  position 
they  could  by  no  chance  have  seen  his  back,  and  yet 
they  seemed  to  know  that  the  approaching  bird  was  branded 
and  a  pariah.  The  feeding  crows  rose  as  one  bird,  met 
Jim  half-way,  and  chased  and  buffeted  him  back  into  the 
woods.  It  was  in  this  hurried  retreat  that  Jim's  white 
spot  showed  prominently  and  told  better  than  words  the 
story  of  his  persecution.  Is  it  not  possible  that  the  crows 
felt  that  their  brother's  marked  peculiarity  would  attract 

68 


Some  Odd  Bits  of  Bird  Life          69 

undue  attention  to  them  in  case  he  were  admitted  to  com- 
radeship ? 

I  have  spoken  elsewhere  of  the  albino  bobolink  who  was 
refused  the  companionship  of  his  kind  by  all  save  one  gentle 
bird  whom  he  wooed  and  won  for  a  mate.  The  bobolink  was 
almost  pure  white  while  the  crow's  color  was  normal  save 
for  the  small  white  patch  on  his  black  back.  Birds,  however, 
seem  to  regard  the  slightest  variation  from  Nature's  color  rule 
as  a  disgrace  to  their  kind.  I  met  Jim  during  two  seasons 
when  the  other  crows  were  paired  and  keeping  house.  He 
was  unquestionably  leading  a  bachelor  existence.  Twice  I 
saw  other  crows  go  out  of  their  way  to  attack  him,  but 
despite  his  unhappy  and  lonely  lot  he  clings  tenaciously  to 
life  and  only  recently  I  have  seen  him  foraging  for  food  in 
the  northern  Illinois  cornfields. 

There  is  no  love  in  my  heart  for  the  English  sparrow. 
I  have  seen  his  persecution  of  our  native  birds  until  I 
cannot  summon  up  a  particle  of  sympathy  for  him,  no  matter 
into  what  straits  he  may  come.  I  confess  to  a  secret  re- 
joicing every  time  a  predatory  shrike  strikes  a  sparrow  and 
trusses  him  for  breakfast.  The  Britisher  has  a  busy  time  all 
winter  dodging  the  butcher-bird,  and  even  after  the  enemy 
has  gone  to  its  northern  home  the  sparrow  trembles  at  pass- 
ing shadows.  I  was  idly  watching  a  flock  of  sparrows  one 
summer  day  feeding  at  the  edge  of  the  Lake  Shore  Drive  in 
Chicago.  Suddenly  every  individual  in  the  flock  crouched 
close  to  the  ground,  and  then  all  rose  like  a  feathered  entity 
and  made  for  shelter.  No  sparrow  nor  gathering  of  sparrows 
ever  made  a  quicker  movement  than  did  that  flock.  The 
journey  from  the  ground  to  the  thickness  of  an  evergreen 
tree  standing  in  the  grounds  of  a  private  residence,  was  made 


70         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

in  arrow-flight  time.  It  is  probable  that  no  feathered  gather- 
ing ever  had  a  better  apparent  reason  for  adjourning  than  did 
that  bunch  of  city  sparrows.  Coincident  with  the  sight  of 
their  scurrying  there  fell  upon  my  ear  a  dismal  cry  from 
above.  It  was  a  half  croak,  half  file  rasp,  a  sort  of  disaster- 
foreboding  wail.  Then  a  shadow  swept  over  the  ground,  and 
a  look  upward  showed  me  a  big  red  and  gray  parrot  making 
a  lumbering  flight  in  full  and  awful  cry  from  the  back  piazza 
of  a  third-story  flat.  The  sparrows  probably  have  family 
traditions  of  all  sorts  of  feathered  horrors.  It  is  doubtful, 
however,  if  a  search  of  the  archives  of  their  remote  ancestors 
would  show  anything  descriptive  of  more  terror  of  voice,  beak, 
and  plumage  than  that  which  had  just  broken  on  their  sight 
and  hearing.  Small  wonder  is  it  that  the  sparrows  took  to 
the  woods.  The  parrot  lighted  in  a  tree  which  towered  above 
that  in  which  the  sparrows  had  taken  refuge.  The  bird's 
intention  of  perching  in  this  tree  was  no  sooner  expressed  by 
the  direction  of  its  flight  than  the  sparrow  horde  left  one 
hiding-place  and  fled  to  another. 

English  sparrows,  like  all  other  birds,  are  inquisitive,  and 
when  they  saw  that  this  bird  nightmare,  which  strangely  had 
chosen  a.  bright  day  to  be  abroad,  showed  no  signs  of  hostility 
they  gathered  about  it  by  the  hundreds.  They  hurled  all 
sorts  of  names  at  the  parrot.  Never  before  had  I  realized  the 
extent  of  the  sparrow  vocabulary.  The  parrot  made  its  awk- 
ward way  from  tree  to  tree,  followed  by  all  the  sparrows  resi- 
dent in  that  section  of  the  city.  The  feathered  street  gamins 
gave  over  eating  and  the  delights  of  fighting  for  the  pure 
pleasure  of  swearing  at  this  interrupter  of  their  breakfast. 
Poll  contented  herself  with  croaking  at  the  assembled  throng, 
and  with  occasionally  asking  an  individual  sparrow  for  a 


Some  Odd  Bits  of  Bird  Life  71 

cracker.  The  sparrows  were  gaining  courage,  and  apparently 
were  contemplating  an  attack  in  force  when  a  boy  who  knew 
how  to  climb  trees  captured  Poll  and  carried  her  back  to  her 
cage. 

Some  birds  have  become  accustomed  to  many  of  the 
appurtenances  of  civilization.  Those  that  have  been  shot  at 
once,  or  have  seen  their  kind  shot  at,  know  a  gun  as  far  as 
they  can  see  it.  They  will  all  but  perch  on  the  shoulder  of 
an  unarmed  man,  but  will  keep  a  ten-acre  lot  between  them 
and  a  man  with  a  breech-loader.  Glass,  however,  is  one  of 
man's  belongings  which  the  most  astute  bird  as  yet  fails 
thoroughly  to  understand.  A  window  which  has  light  back 
of  it  as  well  as  in  front  of  it  is  a  perfect  death  trap  for  birds 
of  many  species.  The  oven-bird,  sometimes  called  the 
golden-crowned  thrush,  is  constantly  dashing  against  window 
panes,  always  to  its  discomfiture  and  frequently  to  its  death. 
One  of  these  birds  at  noon  one  day  brought  up  against  a  pane 
of  glass  in  the  window  of  a  great  department  store  on  one  of 
the  busiest  street  corners  of  the  city  of  Chicago.  The  bird 
recovered  itself,  but  in  its  bewilderment  it  left  the  window 
only  to  fly  into  the  crowded  mart  through  an  open  door. 
The  oven-bird  was  caught  and  caged.  Then  it  promptly  and 
properly  died.  All  caged  birds  ought  to  die  in  self-defense. 
The  Audubon  Society  members  say  that  death  for  the  song- 
sters is  preferable  to  imprisonment.  There  are  few  bird-lovers 
who  will  try  to  gainsay  the  society's  dictum. 

Not  long  ago  a  kingfisher  tried  to  fly  into  the  Academy  of 
Sciences  through  a  pane  of  plate  glass.  The  shock  killed  the 
bird.  It  now  stands  stuffed  with  cotton  and  plaster  of  paris 
looking  out  of  the  very  window  against  which  it  hurled  itself 
to  death. 


72         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

I  once  found  the  body  of  a  small  hawk  which  had  met 
death  in  a  peculiar  way.  I  doubt  if  a  stranger  fate  ever  over- 
took any  living  creature.  I  found  the  bird  hanging  by  the 
upper  tendons  of  its  left  wing  to  a  barb  on  the  strand  of  a 
wire  fence.  Unquestionably  the  hawk  was  pursuing  its 
quarry  when  it  struck  the  fence  with  terrific  force.  The  barb 
entered  the  skin  and  tendons  of  the  wing  and  held  the  bird 
fast.  Such  was  the  impetus  acquired  from  the  force  of  the 
flight  that  the  bird's  body  swung  around  the  wire  strand  two 
or  three  times,  a  fact  shown  by  the  twisted  condition  of  the 
tendons.  The  hawk  was  dead  when  discovered,  but  whether 
the  shock  of  the  impact  killed  it  or  whether  it  died  as  the 
result  of  the  fierce  struggle  to  free  itself  cannot  be  told. 
There  was  no  wound  save  that  of  the  broken  wing  and  torn 
skin  and  tendons,  a  circumstance  that  shows  that  the  bird  was 
not  shot  and  afterward  impaled  upon  the  wire.  Doubtless 
some  meadow  mouse  is  still  congratulating  itself  on  the  nar- 
rowest escape  of  its  life,  and  on  the  death  of  one  of  its 
implacable  enemies. 

Recently  the  undoubtedly  wise  and  humane  members  of 
the  Illinois  legislature  granted  the  right  hitherto  denied,  to 
shoot  during  certain  months  of  the  year  the  mourning-dove, 
the  emblem  of  peace  and  of  all  gentleness.  I  am  charitable 
enough  to  doubt  if  any  member  of  the  state  body  would  have 
voted  for  such  a  provision  of  the  game  law  if  he  could  have 
seen  the  exhibition  of  courage  and  devotion  to  duty  by  a 
dove  that  once  came  under  my  notice.  A  pair  of  the  birds 
had  built  a  nest  about  four  feet  from  the  ground  in  a  little 
1  evergreen  tree  on  a  side  hill.  The  nesting  site  was  in  the 
outskirts  of  one  of  Chicago's  suburbs.  The  month  of  the 
nest  building,  April,  had  been  unusually  dry;  the  fallen  oak 


Some  Odd  Bits  of  Bird  Life  73 

leaves  and  the  grass  where  the  tender  green  had  not  yet 
sprung  were  as  dry  as  chips.  A  fire,  started  by  a  spark  from 
a  passing  engine,  spread  rapidly  and  ran  along  the  hillside 
toward  the  dove's  nest.  I  knew  the  location  of  the  bird's 
home  and  I  watched  the  mother  dove  all  through  the  subse- 
quent ordeal.  The  flames  reached  the  tree  upon  which  the 
frail  nest  was  placed,  and  though  the  fire  mounted  high 
enough  for  the  dove  to  feel  the  intensity  of  the  heat,  she  lifted 
not  a  wing  to  leave  her  charge.  The  flames  swept  under  her 
and  passed  on,  but  for  fully  five  minutes  thereafter  the  devoted 
mother  was  shrouded  in  smoke.  The  bird's  courage  was  of 
little  avail,  however,  for  some  creature,  man  or  beast,  robbed 
the  nest  the  day  after  the  fire. 

The  jay  is  unquestionably  a  good  deal  of  a  rascal,  but  he 
is  one  of  the  most  interesting  creatures  that  fly.  I  confess  to 
a  liking  for  him  though  he  does  steal  eggs  once  in  a  while 
and  is  the  common  scold  of  every  bird  neighborhood.  I 
watched  a  pair  of  jays  once  while  they  built  their  nest  in  a 
small  fir  tree  in  the  dooryard  of  a  hotel  at  Highland  Park. 
The  birds  built  the  bulkiest  jay's  nest  I  had  ever  seen. 
When  the  structure  was  about  two-thirds  completed  I  heard 
a  loud  jay  conversation  in  the  lane  back  of  the  hotel  and  I 
looked  over  the  fence  to  discover  the  cause.  The  two  jays 
were  on  an  ash  pile,  and  were  .having  an  animated  discussion 
about  a  very  dirty  paper  collar  which  lay  between  them.  It 
was  apparent  that  one  of  the  birds  doubted  the  utility  of  the 
collar  as  nest-making  material,  while  the  other  was  an  advo- 
cate of  trying  it  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that  it  was  some- 
thing new.  Womanlike,  Madame  Jay  finally  had  her  way  (I 
suppose  it  was  the  madame),  and  into  the  wall  of  the  nest  the 
paper  collar  went.  When  the  home  was  completed  six  eggs 


74         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

were  deposited,  one  more  than  I  had  ever  before  found  in  a 
jay's  nest.  Mother  Jay  staid  on  the  nest  continuously  for 
fourteen  days  with  the  exception  of  a  few  short  trips  for  daily 
bread.  On  the  fourteenth  day  the  young  jays  ought  to  have 
been  poking  their  heads  through  the  shells.  They  didn't 
poke.  Mrs.  Bluejay  kept  on  sitting.  Eighteen  days  had 
passed  and  then  the  husband  began  to  plead  with  his  mate  in 
the  few  soft  notes  which  he  could  command.  He  asked  her 
to  leave  the  nest,  but  she  paid  no  heed.  Three  weeks  were 
up.  Young  jays  that  occupied  a  nest  whose  foundation  had 
been  laid  many  days  later  than  that  of  the  fir  tree  home,  were 
feathering  out  and  clamoring  for  food.  This  fact  was  duly 
called  to  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Jay  by  her  husband.  She 
wouldn't  budge  an  inch.  He  made  many  trips  to  and  from 
a  laden  cherry  tree,  carrying  his  spouse  specimens  of  the  finest 
fruit  and  telling  her  there  were  thousands  more  like  them  on 
the  tree.  There  was  found  one  female  who  was  proof  against 
the  fruit  temptation.  Five  days  more  passed,  and  the  devoted 
sitting  bird  looked  tired  and  seedy.  Her  husband,  who 
throughout  the  ordeal  had  confined  himself  solely  to  melliflu- 
ous pleadings,  now  got  mad.  He  flew  to  a  perch  a  foot 
above  his  sitting  mate,  cocked  his  head  on  one  side,  looked 
down  at  her,  and  with  marked  emphasis  and  significance 
uttered  the  one  word,  "  Jay."  Sarcasm  won  and  Madame  left 
her  nest  and  six  eggs  for  good  and  aye.  After  the  desertion 
of  the  nest  I  took  it  down  and  broke  the  eggs.  They  were 
dried  up  and  showed  no  signs  that  incubation  had  advanced 
beyond  a  day  or  two. 

One  or  two  of  my  experiences  makes  me  bold  to  say  that 
I  believe  the  birds  are  much  hardier  creatures  than  generally 
is  supposed.  It  is  something  of  a  journey  from  our  middle- 


Some  Odd  Bits  of  Bird  Life  75 

western  fields  to  the  rocky  little  spot  known  as  David's  Island, 
in  Long  Island  Sound.  Let  us  make  the  journey  if  only  for 
the  sake  of  a  story  of  the  hardihood  of  a  song  sparrow.  I 
spent  the  winter  of  the  year  1888  at  David's  Island  which 
was  then  a  United  States  military  station.  The  first  week  in 
March  a  song  sparrow  arrived  on  the  island  and  made  his 
headquarters  near  a  woodpile  at  the  government  dock.  The 
bird  sang  daily  from  the  top  of  an  upright  pole  which  marked 
one  of  the  divisions  of  the  woodpile  into  cords.  At  the  end 
of  the  second  week  there  came  that  awful  blizzard  which 
buried  buildings  in  snow,  rooted  trees  out  of  the  earth,  and 
cost  many  human  lives.  The  storm  was  the  worst  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  land  and  it  raged  unremittingly  for  two  days. 
Then  there  came  a  lull;  the  sun  shone  on  a  buried  country; 
the  wooden  barracks  of  the  army  recruits  in  places  were 
hidden  from  sight.  So  terrific  had  been  the  storm  that  strong 
men  sentinels  had  been  overcome  at  their  posts.  On  the 
morning  of  the  clearing  of  the  skies  the  soldiers  of  the  garri- 
son attacked  the  snow-drifts  and  broke  a  road  to  the  wood- 
pile where  three  days  before  the  sparrow  sang.  When  the 
last  great  white  mass  was  overcome  the  attacking  party  was 
greeted  by  as  cheerful  a  note  as  ever  fell  on  soldiers'  ears. 
The  minstrel  was  the  song  sparrow  with  his  melody  still 
unfrozen  in  his  throat  and  with  a  spirit  that  the  storm  could 
not  conquer. 

It  would  be  edifying  to  a  degree,  doubtless,  if  we  could 
put  ourselves  in  touch  with  the  thoughts  of  birds.  I  would 
give  much  to  know  just  what  it  was  that  prompted  a  red- 
headed woodpecker  to  a  certain  line  of  conduct  on  one  occa- 
sion. I  concluded  he  was  moved  by  a  spirit  of  pure  mischief 
and  nothing  else,  but  possibly  he  had  some  graver  reason  in 


76         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

his  head.  I  saw  a  brilliant  Baltimore  oriole  sunning  himself 
on  a  limb  and  holding  in  his  bill  a  piece  of  newspaper  as  large 
as  himself.  I  never  knew  an  oriole  to  use  newspaper  for 
nesting  material,  and  although  it  was  homesteading  time  I 
did  not  think  that  the  bird  seriously  contemplated  playing 
the  vireo  and  using  wall-paper  in  his  residence.  There  was 
a  red-headed  woodpecker  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  He 
seemed  to  take  something  more  than  passing  interest  in  the 
oriole  and  his  bit  of  paper.  Perhaps  his  thought  was,  "There's 
a  foolish  bird  laboring  with  something  that  it  has  no  possible 
use  for. ' '  Whatever  the  thought,  the  red-head  presently  darted 
out,  snatched  the  bit  of  paper  from  the  oriole,  and  flew  far 
across  the  field  with  it  to  another  tree.  There  he  dropped  the 
paper  to  the  ground  and  began  a  search  for  grubs  in  the  bark. 
The  woodpecker  had  no  more  use  for  the  paper  than  did  the 
oriole.  Perhaps  its  purloining  of  the  paper  was  prompted 
simply  by  a  bad  temper.  It  has  often  been  intimated  that 
infirmities  of  temper  are  not  infrequently  the  accompaniments 
of  red  heads. 

One  night  in  late  April  a  brilliant  male  scarlet  tanager  flew 
through  the  open  door  into  a  cigar  store  situated  on  one  of 
the  busiest  corners  in  the  city  of  Chicago.  The  bird  took  a 
perch  on  top  of  one  of  the  wall  cases  and  proceeded  to  make 
himself  perfectly  at  home.  It  is  a  curious  fact  that  not  one  of 
the  scores  of  people  who  visited  the  cigar  store  during  the 
next  twenty-four  hours  was  able  to  give  the  bird  its  proper 
name.  It  was  the  belief  of  all  that  some  rare  bird,  originally 
from  the  tropics,  had  escaped  from  its  cage.  The  scarlet 
tanagers  are  abundant  birds  in  the  Chicago  suburbs,  and  the 
fact  that  no  one  knew  the  songster  is  a  sufficient  commentary 
on  the  lack  of  the  observing  power  of  the  mass  of  people.  The 


BLACK  AND  WHITE  WARBLER. 


Some  Odd  Bits  of  Bird  Life          77 

tanager  was  supplied  with  food  by  the  proprietor  of  the  store. 
The  door  was  left  open  daily  for  hours  and  no  attempt  was  made 
to  restrain  the  bird  from  leaving.  He  seemed  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  his  quarters,  however,  and  staid  in  the  cigar  store 
until  November,  when  he  died.  It  is  curious  to  know  that 
the  bird  did  not  change  plumage  as  the  fall  approached,  as 
is  the  custom  of  the  tribe.  His  scarlet  coat  was  as  brilliant 
in  November  as  in  May.  The  fact  that  the  store  which 
he  made  his  home  was  pretty  well  filled  with  cigar  smoke 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  time  did  not  seem  vto  interfere 
in  the  least  with  the  comfort  or  the  cheerful  spirit  of  the 
tanager. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN    GOD'S    ACRE 

People  who  are  striving  for  effect  sometimes  call  burial- 
grounds  "cities  of  silence."  That's  all  well  enough,  perhaps, 
poetically,  but  in  May  and  June  cemeteries  are  anything  but 
silent.  The  songsters  found  out  long  ago  that  a  meed  of 
protection  was  given  them  inside  cemetery  walls  that  was 
given  nowhere  else.  Sentiment  is  of  course  largely  respon- 
sible for  this,  for  no  matter  how  active  may  be  the  nest-rob- 
bing proclivities  of  the  small  boy,  he  withholds  his  hand  in 
the  graveyard.  The  birds  throng  in  the  city  parks  during  the 
migrations,  but  it  is  in  the  city  cemeteries  that  they  make 
their  homes.  Oakwoods,  Rose  Hill,  and  Graceland,  in  Chi- 
cago, resound  with  song  all  through  the  birds'*  courtship  sea- 
son. Nearly  every  tree  and  shrub  in  these  burial-places  holds 
the  home  of  a  songster.  In  late  June  young  robins  and 
bronzed  grackles  in  hundreds  are  scattered  all  over  the  lawns. 
The  catbirds  and  brown  thrashers  are  in  every  thicket,  and 
the  wood  thrush  tinkles  his  twilight  bell  on  every  side.  Birds 
that  in  other  places  are  shy  and  timid  in  the  cemeteries 
become  familiar  and  fearless. 

Graceland  cemetery  is  wholly  within  the  city  of  Chicago. 
Within  its  limits  birds  can  be  found  that  seldom  are  found 
elsewhere.  The  cardinal  grosbeaks  are  rare  enough  in  north- 
ern Illinois.  I  have  seen  only  one  pair  in  a  wild  state  in  the 
vicinity  of  Chicago  and  this  pair  I  found  in  Graceland  ceme- 
tery. The  male  made  a  perch  of  the  tip  of  a  towering  tree, 

78 


In  God's  Acre  79 

and  there  with  the  sun  shining  full  on  his  scarlet  coat,~he  sang 
and  whistled  in  the  perfect  ecstasy  of  living.  He  soon  had 
an  audience,  for  from  all  parts  of  the  burial-ground  the  people 
gathered,  attracted  by  the  magic  of  the  voice.  Had  that 
southern  songster  dared  to  give  that  solo  in  Lincoln  Park  I 
should  have  trembled  for  his  life,  but  within  the  cemetery 
walls  I  felt  that  he  was  safe.  There  are  people  who,  when 
looking  at  the  bright  plumage  of  a  bird  or  listening  to  its 
sweet  song,  can  think  of  only  one  of  two  things,  killing  it  or 
caging  it.  I  heard  expressed  that  afternoon,  while  the  gros- 
beak was  singing,  a  dozen  wishes:  "I'd  like  to  have  that  fel- 
low in  a  cage."  It  is  my  sincere  belief  that  the  first  bird 
that  Adam  saw  was  pecking  at  a  cherry,  and  that  the  first 
bird  that  Eve  saw  was  some  scarlet  tanager  flashing  across  a 
sunlit  meadow.  Adam  said,  "The  bird  is  a  thief";  Eve 
said,  "The  bird  is  a  beauty."  From  that  day  to  this  the 
hand  of  man  and  the  head  of  woman  have  been  against  the 
bird. 

The  female  cardinal  is  as  musical  as  her  mate,  though  she 
has  but  a  small  share  of  his  beauty.  When  the  male  cardi- 
nal had  tired  his  throat  with  his  singing  that  afternoon  the 
female  took  up  the  strain  and  sang  alone  for  fully  five  min- 
utes. Then  she  joined  the  male  and  together  they  flew 
beyond  the  cemetery  walls  where  I  was  afraid  their  beauty 
of  plumage  and  voice  would  invite  destruction.  I  heard  from 
a  friend,  however,  that  the  cardinals  were  again  in  Graceland  a 
few  days  later. 

In  late  April,  1900,  the  evening  grosbeaks  put  in  an  appear- 
ance in  Graceland  cemetery.  They  were  found  by  two  mem- 
bers of  the  Audubon  Society  who  were  out  on  a  search  for 
spring  birds.  The  evening  grosbeak  is  in  its  coloring  one  of 


8o         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

Nature's  handsome  children.  The  body  of  the  male  is  bril- 
liant yellow,  while  the  tail  is  jet  black.  The  wings  are  sharply 
contrasted  black  and  white.  It  is  not  at  all  a  graceful  bird. 
Its  body  is  chunky  and  its  movements  are  awkward,  the  legs 
and  feet  seemingly  being  unequal  to  the  task  of  supporting 
the  bulk  of  body  and  feathers.  The  discoverers  of  the  gros- 
beaks were  kind  enough  to  tell  me  of  the  birds'  presence  in 
Graceland  and  I  went  with  them  the  next  day  and  found  the 
creatures  in  the  place  they  had  first  been  seen.  There  is 
something  very  childlike  perhaps  in  the  joy  one  feels  in  mak- 
ing a  new  bird  acquaintance.  I  never  before  had  seen  a  living 
evening  grosbeak.  There  are  men  who  have  made  ornithology 
a  vocation  rather  than  an  avocation,  and  yet  never  have  met 
this  bird.  The  Graceland  grosbeaks  spent  about  half  the 
time  in  a  clump  of  evergreens,  flying  from  there  to  some  box- 
elders  where  they  would  feast  for  a  while  on  the  buds.  There 
were  between  twenty  and  thirty  individuals  in  the  flock. 
Within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  birds'  feeding-place  workmen 
were  hammering  spikes  on  an  elevated  railroad  then  under 
construction.  The  din  was  nearly  deafening.  Added  to  this, 
a  locomotive  with  a  tool  train  was  puffing  backward  and  for- 
ward on  the  surface  road  beneath  the  elevated  structure. 
The  grosbeaks  paid  no  attention  to  the  racket.  They  also 
appeared  absolutely  fearless  of  the  three  human  beings  who 
stood  just  beneath  them  almost  within  arm's  reach  and 
ogled  them  through  opera-glasses.  Although  the  grosbeaks 
were  strangers  in  this  part  of  the  country,  they  seemed  to 
know  the  Illinois  bluejay  well  enough  and  to  share  with  other 
birds  the  antipathy  felt  for  this  feathered  thief.  One  of  the 
male  grosbeaks  attacked  a  jay  that  had  approached  the  feed- 
ing-place, and  the  two  fought  in  midair.  I  have  told  else- 


In  God's  Acre  81 

where  of  a  fight  between  a  bluejay  and  a  scarlet  tanager  and 
of  the  bewildering  confusion  of  color  beauty  that  the  combat 
presented.  In  the  grosbeak-bluejay  fight  there  was  a  change 
of  color  scheme,  but  the  confusion  and  the  beauty  were  there 
not  a  bit  abated.  The  grosbeak  thrashed  the  jay,  whereat 
three  human  spectators  rejoiced  in  concert  with  a  dozen  ruby- 
crowned  kinglets  who  had  watched  the  row  from  a  thicket. 
The  grosbeaks  disappeared  from  Graceland  on  the  afternoon  of 
Friday,  April  2Oth,  thereby  disappointing  some  bird-lovers 
who  made  belated  attempts  to  see  them. 

I  have  just  called  the  jay  a  thief.  I  have  called  him  so  a 
number  of  times,  and  I  will  call  him  so  again  when  opportu- 
nity offers.  He  is  a  thief,  but  he  is  an  interesting  thief  and  I 
don't  know  that  we  could  do  without  him.  What  would  the 
doctors  do  if  they  didn't  have  criminals  to  study  in  order  to 
form  new  degeneracy  theories?  Why,  the  doctors  would  lose 
half  the  fun  of  their  profession.  When  you  see  a  jay  sneak- 
ing off  through  the  trees  with  his  bill  spiked  through  a  stolen 
robin's  egg,  you  know  at  once  why  everything  that  wears 
feathers  hates  him.  A  Kentucky  friend  once  told  me  of  see- 
ing a  jay  deliberately  lift  four  newly  hatched  mockingbirds 
out  of  the  nest  and  drop  them  to  the  ground,  where  they 
perished.  I  had  thought  there  must  have  been  some  mistake 
about  this  story,  for  while  I  knew  the  jay  was  fond  of  eggs,  I 
hardly  thought  he  was  hardened  enough  to  commit  murder. 
I  am  no  longer  in  doubt.  I  found  in  Rose  Hill  cemetery 
the  nest  of  a  wood  pewee.  It  was  a  beautiful  little  lichen-made 
saucer  resting  on  the  upper  side  of  a  broad  horizontal  limb  of 
an  oak.  I  visited  the  nest  a  number  of  times  and  watched 
the  father  bird  launch  out  from  the  tree  to  snap  up  occasional 
insect  trifles.  He  was  a  pugnacious  little  fellow  and  he  kept 


82         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

all  the  birds  of  the  neighborhood  at  a  distance.  A  pair  of  jays 
had  a  nest  in  an  evergreen  tree  not  far  away,  and  knowing  the 
jays'  thieving  proclivities  the  wood  pewees  waged  constant 
war  against  them.  The  appearance  of  either  one  of  the  pair 
within  twenty  yards  of  the  pewees'  home  was  the  signal  for 
an  attack.  The  jay  always  fled.  One  day  three  little  crea- 
tures poked  their  way  into  the  world  through  the  eggshells  in 
the  oak  tree  nest.  There  were  enough  insects  near  the  oak 
tree,  apparently,  to  supply  the  wants  of  parents  and  children. 
It  was  seldom  that  either  one  of  the  pewees  wandered  away 
from  home.  I  have  never  been  able  to  explain  why  it  was 
that  on  one  afternoon  as  I  stood  watching  the  birds,  they 
both  left  the  oak  and  flew  to  a  catalpa  fully  fifty  yards  away. 
No  sooner  had  the  little  guardians  left  their  charge  than  one 
of  the  jays  came  like  a  flash  from  the  evergreen,  and  before  I 
could  realize  what  was  being  done,  much  less  interfere,  the 
three  infant  pewees  were  lifted  from  the  nest  and  dropped  one 
by  one  to  the  gravel  walk  below.  The  parent  pewees  soon 
came  back,  and  their  mourning  is  with  me  yet. 

In  Graceland  there  is  a  little  lake  whose  waters  and  the 
perfect  peace  of  the  surroundings  attract  many  of  the  wilder 
birds.  One  April  morning  I  flushed  a  woodcock  from  under 
the  trees  on  the  shore.  In  the  early  spring  mallards  not 
infrequently  rest  in  the  sedges  near  the  little  island  with  its 
drooping  willows.  The  grebes,  that  are  hunted  mercilessly 
throughout  the  entire  year  because  women  covet  their  silver 
breasts  for  bonnet  decoration,  make  this  Graceland  pond  a 
resting  place  for  days  together  while  on  the  weary  journey 
northward.  No  gun  flashes  through  the  bushes  on  the  shore, 
and  the  harassed  birds  find  peace  and  food.  Three  of  the 
grebes  stayed  on  the  waters  of  the  pond  for  ten  days,  and 


In  God's  Acre  83 

became  so  tame  that  they  paid  no  attention  to  the  curious 
people  who  watched  their  swimming  and  diving  feats.  A 
female  blue-bill  duck  came  into  the  Graceland  pond  one 
morning  and  was  so  pleased  with  the  situation  that  she  stayed 
for  two  weeks.  Before  the  blue-bill  left  it  was  possible  to 
approach  within  a  few  yards  of  her  without  causing  her  either 
to  dive  or  to  dart  away. 

Seven  small  herons  dropped  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
cemetery  pond  one  day  and  when  startled  by  approaching 
footsteps,  they  flew  to  the  island  and  perched  on  one  of  the 
willows.  There  they  drew  their  heads  down  into  their  shoulders 
and  stood  motionless.  It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  regret 
that  those  herons  were  not  positively  identified.  The  green 
heron  is  a  much  more  abundant  bird  than  is  his  little  blue 
cousin.  It  was  a  dark  day  when  the  birds  were  seen,  and  as 
there  was  no  way  of  reaching  the  island,  distance  forbade 
certain  identification.  A  fellow  bird-lover,  whose  opinion 
carries  treble  the  weight  of  mine,  was  almost  willing  to  say 
positively,  " Little  blue  herons."  Probably  they  were,  but 
neither  of  us  has  dared  to  add  the  name  of  the  bird  to  our 
Chicago  lists. 

I  give  herewith  a  list  of  the  birds  that  probably  nest  every 
year  in  the  Chicago  cemeteries.  In  many  instances  the  nests 
have  been  found,  and  in  the  other  cases  the  birds  have  either 
been  seen  with  young  or  have  been  found  to  be  resident  during 
the  breeding  season :  Robin,  flicker,  red-headed  woodpecker, 
chickadee,  kingbird,  phcebe,  wood  pewee,  least  fly  catcher, 
bronzed  grackle,  rose-breasted  grosbeak,  song  sparrow,  chip- 
ping sparrow,  vesper  sparrow,  catbird,  brown  thrasher,  yel- 
low warbler,  redstart,  red-eyed  vireo,  wood  thrush,  bluebird, 
house  wren,  bluejay,  indigo  bird,  Baltimore  priole,  orchard 


84         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

oriole,  scarlet  tanager,  cedarbird,  cow-bird  (parasite),  yellow- 
billed  cuckoo,  black-billed  cuckoo,  mourning  dove,  crow, 
loggerhead  shrike,  towhee,  goldfinch,  ruby-throated  humming- 
bird, oven  bird. 

It  is  probable  that  some  of  the  hawks  and  owls  nest  within 
the  cemeteries'  limits,  though  I  know  of  no  recorded  instances. 
The  nests  of  the  meadowlark  and  bobolink  both  have  been 
found  on  a  patch  of  ground  belonging  to  the  Rose  Hill  ceme- 
tery authorities  and  lying  just  outside  the  fence  of  the  ceme- 
tery proper.  When  it  is  taken  into  consideration  that  these 
burial-grounds  lie  within  the  limits  of  a  city  of  nearly  two 
million  inhabitants,  there  will  come  a  realization  that  there  is 
much  wild  life  in  the  very  heart  of  civilization. 

Although  the  journey  is  generally  made  the  other  way,  it 
may  not  be  amiss  to  go  from  the  cemetery  to  the  church.  I 
have  never  found  owls  in  the  graveyard,  but  I  have  found 
them  in  the  sanctuary.  During  the  winter  of  1895  several 
owls,  which  I  believe  were  of  the  long-eared  species,  took  up 
a  temporary  residence  in  the  steeple  of  Unity  Church,  Walton 
Place  and  Dearborn  Avenue,  Chicago.  The  church  steeple 
for  years  had  been  the  home  of  a  flock  of  pigeons.  When 
the  owls  appeared  the  pigeons  had  to  seek  other  quarters, 
though  the  chances  are  that  several  members  of  the  flock  were 
sacrificed  to  owlish  appetites  before  the  moving  was  accom- 
plished. One  evening  during  a  heavy  snow  storm  I  saw  two 
of  the  owls  sitting  in  a  tree  on  Delaware  Place  and  blinking  at 
a  strong  electric  light  which  stood  not  ten  feet  away.  During 
the  same  winter  the  screech  owls  visited  the  city  in  numbers. 
They  were  particularly  common  along  Dearborn  Avenue. 
One  of  the  little  fellows  took  up  his  abode  under  the  porch 
of  a  residence  and  stayed  there  for  ten  days.  It  is  a  sorrow 


In  God's  Acre  85 

to  be  compelled  to  record  that  many  of  these  visitors  lost 
their  lives  at  the  hands  of  the  street  boys.  It  is  particularly 
sorrowful  to  record  this  because  the  chances  are  that  the  owls 
were  doing  their  full  duty  in  the  matter  of  killing  English 
sparrows. 

Standing  in  Graceland  cemetery  at  the  height  of  the  bird 
concert  season,  and  hearing  ten  songsters  at  once  breaking 
the  silence  of  the  place,  I  have  wondered  whether  the  birds 
loved  to  hear  themselves  sing.  I  suppose  that  they  would 
make  music  for  the  world  if  they  were  as  deaf  as  posts.  I 
have  a  reason  for  this  supposition.  It  is  some  distance  from 
Graceland  cemetery,  Chicago,  to  Goat  Island,  Niagara  River, 
but  I  must  go  that  far  for  my  reason.  Since  New  York  state 
has  made  a  park  of  the  island  and  has  enforced  rules  for  the 
regulation  of  lawless  visitors,  the  birds  have  gone  back  to  the 
place  and  have  made  of  it  their  summer  home.  Goat  Island 
lies  in  the  river  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice  between  the 
American  and  the  Canadian  Falls.  It  is  eternally  deluged,  as 
one  might  say,  with  the  roar  of  the  waters.  In  places  upon 
Goat  Island  it  is  hard  to  make  the  human  voice  heard.  The 
season  was  a  little  late  for  the  singing  of  the  birds  when  I 
visited  the  island  in  July.  The  song  sparrow,  however,  sings 
every  month  of  the  year,  and  one  of  these  little  fellows  was 
perched  on  the  limb  of  a  tree  close  to  the  great  fall  and  was 
trying  to  let  the  sight-seeing  visitors  know  that  he  was  sing- 
ing a  solo.  The  noise  of  the  waters  was  thunderous.  Birds 
may  have  acute  ears,  but  I  doubt  very  much  if  that  song 
sparrow  heard  his  own  sweet  strains.  He  was  prompted  to 
sing,  and  sing  he  must,  though  the  song  was  lost  in  the  roar 
of  the  falls. 

There   is   plenty    of  excuse    for   the   visitor  to  Niagara, 


86         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

even  though  he  be  a  bird-lover,  for  seeing  nothing  but  the 
ever-changing  color  beauty  of  the  plunging  water.  I  did 
get  my  eyes  away  from  that  magnificent  sight  long 
enough  to  note  that  myriads  of  swallows  were  passing  and 
repassing  through  the  great  cloud  of  spray  and  mist  that  rises 
from  the  rocks  where  the  falling  waters  strike.  People  ap- 
proaching the  falls  from  below  on  the  venturesome  Maid  of 
the  Mist  are  compelled  to  wear  rubber  clothing  to  escape  a 
drenching  from  the  dashing  spray.  It  is  heavier  in  places 
than  the  heaviest  rain,  and  yet  through  it  the  swallows  were 
constantly  darting  taking  a  shower  bath  without  apparently 
wetting  so  much  as  a  feather.  Most  of  the  birds  that  I  saw 
on  that  late  July  morning  were  tree  swallows.  They  con- 
stantly cut  through  the  bars  of  the  floating  rainbow  which  in 
sunshine  is  ever  present  at  Niagara.  There  was  no  hue  in 
those  broad  color  bands,  more  beautiful  than  the  shining  green 
that  the  sunlight  brought  out  as  it  struck  the  upper  feathers  of 
those  darting  swallows. 


CHAPTER  IX 

WHERE    THE    BLACK   TERN    BUILDS 

The  little  village  of  Worth  lies  just  beyond  the  smoke  of 
factory- filled  Chicago.  It  is  on  the  marshes  of  Worth  that 
the  black  terns  build  their  nests ;  it  is  in  the  thorn  thickets 
that  hedge  the  pastures  that  the  loggerhead  shrikes  make 
their  homes;  the  rails,  the  redwings,  and  the  wrens  haunt  the 
reedy  swamps ;  and  the  hawks  and  the  crows  live  in  the  heavy 
timber.  Outside  of  a  race-track  and  the  many  birds  that 
flock  in  its  fields,  Worth  has  few  attractions  to  offer.  The 
race-track  draws  thousands  of  people  daily  for  a  short  season, 
but  the  birds'  visitors  are  few.  In  no  other  place,  perhaps, 
so  near  the  great  city,  could  the  black  terns  nest  in  peace. 
Certain  it  is  that  Worth  is  the  only  place  readily  accessible  to 
the  city  bird-student  where  these  "  soft-breasted  birds  of  the 
sea"  may  be  found  during  the  season  of  courtship  and  house- 
keeping. Black  terns  are  abundant  in  the  shop  windows  and 
upon  the  hats  of  thoughtless  women.  The  shop  birds  and  the 
bonnet  birds  are  wired  and  twisted  into  positions  of  grotesque 
ugliness.  There  never  was  a  line  of  beauty  in  the  stuffed  bird 
of  a  milliner.  Would  that  woman  could  see  it!  The  black 
terns  of  Worth  are  living;  the  sweep  of  their  wings  is  as 
graceful  as  are  the  curving  blades  of  the  swamp  flags.  There 
is  a  price  upon  the  head  of  the  black  tern  because  the  milliner 
covets  the  bird  that  it  may  be  used  as  a  means  for  a  second 
temptation  of  woman.  Neither  the  black  tern  of  Worth  nor 
the  Wilson's  tern  nesting  in  northern  Wisconsin  can  long  sur- 

87 


88         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

vive  the  demands  of  fashion  for  which  the  word  cruel  is  far 
too  feeble  an  adjective. 

I  wandered  one  late  May  day  through  the  music-filled 
fields  of  Worth.  My  destination  was  the  Phillips  farm,  which 
lies  about  a  mile  from  the  depot.  The  orioles  were  whistling 
wherever  a  treetop  offered  a  swaying  perch.  The  meadows 
were  literally  filled  with  singing  bobolinks.  I  passed  a  little 
country  school-house ;  the  children  were  singing  the  opening 
song  of  the  morning.  On  the  ridge-pole  above  them  was 
perched  a  black-throated  bunting,  who  was  adding  his  mite 
of  music  to  swell  the  chorus.  A  little  farther  on  I  made  the 
acquaintance,  that  morning,  of  the  grasshopper  sparrow.  It 
is  a  tiny  field-loving  bird,  with  a  song  which  much  resembles 
the  sound  made  by  the  insect  for  which  it  is  named.  One  of 
the  sparrows  took  perch  on  a  slender  weed  which  its  weight 
was  not  sufficient  to  bend,  and  there  gave  me  a  sample  of  its 
vocal  power,  though,  perhaps,  I  might  better  say  vocal  weak- 
ness. It  will  not  do,  however,  to  despise  the  grasshopper 
sparrow's  song,  for  some  day  when  greed  has  caused  the 
killing  of  all  the  larger  birds  we  may  turn  for  enjoyment  to 
this  humble  little  feathered  rustic. 

On  either  side  of  the  Phillips  farmhouse  there  is  an  orchard, 
while  hedges  that  do  duty  as  fences  extend  in  all  directions. 
On  that  May  morning  at  the  end  of  the  porch  there  were  four 
wild  rose  bushes  in  full  bloom  A  syringa,  with  its  burden 
of  white  blossoms,  flanked  the  line  of  roses.  In  the  syringa 
bush  a  catbird  was  singing,  and  strangely  enough,  he  forgot 
to  throw  into  the  midst  of  his  melody  the  harsh  note  that  so 
often  mars  his  performance.  I  stood  for  a  minute  enjoying 
the  bloom  of  the  roses  and  the  song  of  the  bird.  The  singer 
left  the  discordant  element  out  of  its  song,  to  be  sure,  but 


Where  the  Black  Tern  Builds         89 

discord  came  in  the  shape  of  an  English  sparrow,  who 
viciously  attacked  the  catbird  who  had  been  presumptuous 
enough  to  lift  its  voice  in  a  British  sparrow's  presence.  The 
American  fought  faithfully,  but  it  was  no  match  for  the  heavy- 
beaked  alien.  I  drove  the  sparrow  away.  A  few  minutes 
afterward  I  found  its  big  bulky  home  in  a  cherry  tree.  I  tore 
the  nest  down  and  destroyed  the  eggs.  Cruel?  Not  a  bit  of 
it.  Cruel  to  one  kind  of  bird,  perhaps,  but  kindness  to  an 
hundred  others.  Go  thou  and  do  likewise. 

At  the  end  of  a  little  lane  that  leads  pastureward  from  the 
house  is  an  Osage  orange,  half  tree  and  half  shrub.  It  is  the 
sole  surviving  corner-piece  of  two  hedges  of  bygone  days.  In 
this  growth  was  a  nest  of  the  loggerhead  shrike.  This  bird 
spends  it;s  winters  in  the  South,  but  comes  to  this  latitude  to 
breed,  replacing  here  the  great  northern  shrike  which  comes 
from  the  far  North  in  the  winter  and  scurries  back  Arctic- 
ward  at  the  first  suggestion  of  spring.  The  loggerhead  lives 
on  small  birds,  small  snakes,  and  large  insects.  Being  a  pre- 
datory creature,  it  supposedly  should  be  possessed  of  some 
courage,  and  yet  here  was  a  loggerhead  shrike  that  had  five 
dependent  young  ones  in  its  nest,  and  still  did  not  dare  to  come 
within  a  field's  width  of  its  home  while  trespassing  man  was 
about.  A  robin  or  a  jay  would  have  been  at  the  post  of 
danger,  and  if  it  could  have  done  nothing  else,  would  have 
roundly  berated  the  intruder.  The  loggerhead  sat  on  the  far- 
away fence-post  and  was  apparently  perfectly  unconcerned 
while  effort  was  made  to  peek  into  its  nest.  Some  friends 
who  had  joined  me  undertook  to  take  a  snap-shot  of  the 
shrike's  home  and  young.  The  nest  was  so  well  fortified  with 
twigs  and  branches,  each  of  which  carried  a  score  of  thorns, 
that  the  photographing  process  was  beset  with  difficulties. 


90         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

To  the  right  of  the  nest,  pierced  through  the  neck  and  hang- 
ing from  a  thorn  was  the  half-eaten  body  of  a  small  snake, 
placed  there  by  the  shrike  perhaps  to  provide  the  larder 
against  any  future  scarcity  of  living  game.  As  soon  as  we 
had  left  the  vicinity  of  the  nest  the  shrike  went  back  to  its 
young  and  doubtless  gave  them  each  a  bit  of  snake  steak  to 
make  them  forget  their  fright. 

The  Worth  marsh,  which  stretches  away  for  acres  from 
the  foot  of  the  orchard,  is  a  fruitful  field  for  the  study  of  bird- 
life.  When  we  had  opened  the  old-fashioned  gate  at  the 
lane's  end,  we  could  see  a  glistening  patch  of  clear  water  far 
beyond  the  rushes'  tops.  The  dark  forms  of  birds  were 
wheeling  about  above  its  surface  and  their  cries  were  borne 
down  to  us  by  the  breeze.  We  skirted  the  marsh  and  ap- 
proached the  open  water,  and  there  through  our  glasses  had  a 
perfect  view  of  the  darting  birds.  They  were  dark,  almost 
black,  but  there  was  a  gloss  to  their  feathers  which  the  sun's 
rays  let  us  see  from  time  to  time  as  the  birds  kept  up  their 
changeful  flight.  They  were  black  terns  that  had  left  the 
waters  of  the  larger  lakes  to  come  to  this  place  of  sedges  to 
rear  their  young.  The  red-winged  blackbirds  nest  by  hundreds 
in  the  reeds  of  this  great  swamp.  At  the  time  of  our  visit 
the  nesting  season  was  at  its  height.  As  we  walked  into  the 
swamp  regardless  of  mud  and  water,  the  male  redwings  met 
us  and  hovered  over  our  heads.  They  asked  us  more  vigor- 
ously than  politely  to  turn  back.  The  redwing  is  protected 
by  law  in  the  state  of  Illinois,  but  in  nearly  all  the  other 
states  he  is  put  beyond  the  statute's  pale.  The  bird  unques- 
tionably has  a  weakness  for  grain,  but  the  good  that  he  does 
in  insect-eating  fairly  balances  the  evil  of  his  life.  That  he 
is  a  beauty  in  his  black  blouse  with  its  shoulder  knots  of 


Where  the  Black  Tern  Builds         91 

scarlet  and  gold,  none  will  gainsay.  Can't  we  give  a  kernel 
or  two  of  corn  ungrudgingly  to  a  creature  that  adds  some- 
thing of  living  beauty  to  the  dreary  wastes  of  swamp-land? 

The  long-billed  marsh  wrens  are  abundant  in  the  Worth 
country.  These  birds  have  the  curious  habit  of  building 
several  nests  before  they  make  up  their  minds  which  one  to 
occupy.  The  scientists  have  been  hard  at  work  for  years 
trying  to  find  a  reason  for  this  bit  of  wren  freakiness.  The 
scientists  are  still  at  work,  for  no  one  yet  knows  the  reason 
save  the  wren,  and  the  wren  won't  tell.  We  flushed  from 
the  edge  of  the  marsh  that  morning  a  Bartram's  sandpiper. 
This  bird  is,  I  believe,  the  largest  of  the  sandpiper  kind.  It 
makes  its  summer  home  at  Worth,  and  occasionally  has  for  a 
neighbor  its  plover  cousin,  the  lesser  yellow-legs.  When 
splashing  through  the  water  to  get  a  better  look  at  the  sand- 
piper who  had  taken  to  some  high  ground,  I  found  floating 
the  broken  egg  of  a  king  rail.  The  egg  told  the  story  of  a 
nest  built  too  low,  of  heavy  night  rains,  and  a  flooded  abode. 
King  rails  are  interesting  creatures,  notwithstanding  the  fact 
that  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  they  have  any  brain.  They  are 
big,  blundering,  stupid  birds  who  get  themselves  into  all  sorts 
of  predicaments,  out  of  which,  of  themselves,  they  can  find  no 
means  of  extrication.  A  friend  of  mine  once  found  a  king 
rail  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  near  the  corner  of 
Schiller  Street  and  the  Lake  Shore  Drive  in  Chicago.  The 
bird  paid  but  little  heed  to  passers,  but  seemed  to  lack  the 
wit  to  get  away  from  such  uncongenial  surroundings  as  stone 
pavements  and  brick  walls.  The  men  in  a  North  Clark  Street 
barber-shop  in  the  same  city  were  astounded  one  day  to  see 
an  ungainly  bird  make  its  way  through  the  open  door  to  the 
center  of  the  shop,  where  it  calmly  surveyed  the  surroundings. 


92         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

Another  king  rail  took  possession  of  a  bedroom  in  the  second 
story  of  a  Chicago  residence.  The  bird  absolutely  refused  to 
allow  itself  to  be  "shooed"  out  of  the  window  through  which 
it  had  come.  It  showed  no  fear  of  human  beings,  and  allowed 
itself  to  be  picked  up  without  resistance.  When  it  was  put 
through  the  window  it  took  to  flight  readily  enough,  but  the 
chances  are  that  before  it  had  traveled  far  it  managed  to  get 
into  some  other  fix. 

There  is  something  of  the  savage  left  in  us  all.  I  am  free 
to  confess  that  I  like  to  see  birds  fight.  I  don't  mean  that  I 
wish  them  to  fight,  but  if  they  must  fight  I  like  to  see  the 
fracas.  In  a  tree  in  a  field  back  from  the  Worth  swamp  was 
a  scarlet  tanager.  It  was  sitting  there  peacefully  enough, 
and  apparently  enjoying  the  view,  when  a  bluejay  dropped 
down  from  above  and  went  at  it  beak  and  claw.  I  fully 
expected  to  see  the  tanager  turn  tail  and  flee  before  the  face 
of  his  assailant,  but  it  surprised  me  and  won  my  admiration 
by  doing  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  gave  the  bluejay  blow  for 
blow.  The  combatants  half  flew,  half  fell  to  the  ground, 
clawing,  pecking,  scratching,  and  screaming.  There  was  a 
bewildering  brilliancy  of  moving  color.  There  was  another 
witness  to  this  fight  besides  the  human  beings  who  were  look- 
ing at  it  with  all  the  interest  ever  centered  on  a  ring  contest. 
The  bluejay's  mate  was  in  the  treetop,  but  made  no  effort  to 
take  a  claw  in  the  affair  until  she  thought  that  her  spouse  was 
getting  the  worst  of  it.  Then  she  came  down  hurtling,  and 
joining  forces  with  her  mate,  soon  convinced  the  tanager  that 
it  had  enough.  The  jays  did  not  follow  the  defeated  bird, 
who  made  off  like  a  scarlet  streak  to  the  shelter  of  the  woods. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  farm-house  we  saw  a  hawk  quarter- 
ing the  marsh  in  search  of  prey.  It  was  doubtless  a  marsh 


Where  the  Black  Tern  Builds         93 

harrier,  though  it  looked  much  like  a  duck  hawk.  I  have 
elsewhere  spoken  of  my  admiration  for  the  hawk  family. 
The  duck  hawk  is  a  true  falcon.  He  is  the  epicure  of  the 
feathered  race.  He  disdains  mice  and  barnyard  fowl,  and 
lives  largely  upon  game.  His  delight  is  in  the  chase,  and  the 
rapidity  of  his  flight  is  as  the  passage  of  light.  He  overtakes 
the  teal  or  the  mallard,  and  seizing  his  quarry  in  midair, 
bears  it  away  for  a  feast.  The  utter  fearlessness  of  this 
wandering  falcon  was  shown  not  long  ago  at  Calumet  Lake. 
Some  duck  hunters  had  built  a  blind,  behind  which  they 
crouched  in  their  boats.  Two  ducks  came  into  the  decoys. 
Both  men  fired  a  barrel  each,  and  both  missed.  At  that 
instant,  like  a  bolt  from  the  sky,  a  falcon  descended  and 
struck  down  one  of  the  ducks  within  twenty  yards  of  the 
blind.  Instantly  the  hidden  hunters  fired  the  second  barrels 
of  their  guns  at  hawk  and  duck  and  both  birds  fell  to 
the  water.  The  men  put  out  from  behind  their  blinds  to  pick 
up  the  birds.  The  duck  was  dead;  the  hawk,  still  living, 
though  wounded  unto  death,  remained  with  its  talons  sunk 
deep  into  the  feathers  of  its  quarry,  and  facing  the  oncomers 
with  blazing  eyes  stood  ready  to  give  them  battle.  They 
killed  the  falcon  with  the  stroke  of  an  oar.  The  hand  of  man 
is  ever  against  the  hawk.  When  the  last  duck  hawk  is  dead 
there  will  have  passed  a  creature  with  more  of  the  essence  of 
true  courage  in  its  being  than  exists  in  the  carcasses  of  a 
dozen  of  the  cowards  who  have  brought  extinction  to  its  race. 
I  have  spoken  of  the  difficulties  that  beset  the  photog- 
rapher who  attempted  to  make  the  young  loggerhead  shrikes 
"look  pleasant"  while  he  was  taking  their  pictures.  Bird 
photography  is  for  the  bird-lover  who  has  more  patience  than 
I  can  ever  hope  to  claim.  In  connection  with  this  shrike 


94         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

"sitting,"  however,  I  cannot  forbear  to  tell  of  another 
experience  which  befell  two  of  us  while  we  were  hunting  birds 
with  a  camera.  A  pair  of  bluejays,  early  in  May,  1901,  built 
a  nest  in  an  oak  tree  not  more  than  five  feet  from  the  window 
of  a  room  in  a  Lake  Forest  home.  The  nest  was  below  the 
level  of  the  window-sill  and  its  interior  was  in  plain  view. 
The  birds,  when  building,  paid  little  attention  to  observers 
who  sat  in  the  window.  Finally,  however,  when  the  eggs 
were  laid  and  Mrs.  Jay  had  taken  upon  herself  the  task  of 
sitting,  it  was  proposed  to  take  a  photograph  of  the  nest  and 
bird  through  the  overlooking  window.  Most  people  will 
declare  that  nothing  sweet  in  the  way  of  sound  ever  issued 
from  the  mouth  of  a  bluejay.  Nine-tenths  of  the  year  the 
jay's  jargon  is  a  pain  to  the  sensitive  ear.  During  the  rest  of 
the  time,  however,  the  jay  has  one  liquid  note  which  is  as 
pleasing  as  almost  any  of  Nature's  sounds.  Master  Jay 
reserves  this  sweet  syllable  for  the  benefit  of  Miss  Jay,  whom 
he  hopes  before  May  Day  will  consent  to  change  her  estate 
in  life.  I  think  that  I  have  heard  the  jay's  voice  at  its  best 
and  at  its  worst,  but  it  was  left  for  that  morning  when  the 
photograph  of  the  nest  in  the  oak  tree  was  to  be  taken  for  a 
certain  Mrs.  Jay  to  outdo  in  loudness,  harshness,  and  extent 
of  vocabulary  the  vocal  performance  of  any  bird  to  which  I 
ever  before  had  listened. 

It  was  the  habit  of  Mr.  Jay  to  come  regularly  and  at  short 
intervals  to  the  oak-tree  home  to  feed  his  sitting  spouse. 
It  happened  just  as  the  formidable-looking  camera  was  being 
adjusted  and  focused  on  the  sitting  bird  that  the  husband 
arrived  with  a  tidbit  for  his  wife.  He  saw  the  frowning  instru- 
ment and  fled  incontinently.  Then  it  was  proposed  to  wait 
until  he  returned,  so  that  a  snap-shot  might  be  made  of  both 


Where  the  Black  Tern  Builds         95 

birds  while  the  feeding  was  in  progress.  The  patient  photog- 
rapher sat  with  one  hand  on  the  bulb,  waiting  for  the  reappear- 
ance of  the  male.  He  did  not  come.  The  female  sat  on  her 
nest,  held  there  by  mother  love,  though  there  was  a  great 
fear  in  her  eye  as  she  looked  at  the  gun-like  affair  in  the 
window  above.  An  hour  passed,  and  still  Mr.  Jay  did  not 
appear.  He  was  finally  located  by  an  interested  observer  in 
a  tree  at  the  far-off  edge  of  the  lawn.  He  was  keeping  up 
his  watch  on  the  nest  and  on  the  infernal  machine  in  the 
window,  but  he  dared  not  approach.  An  hour  and  a  half  had 
gone  by,  and  Mrs.  Jay  was  getting  hungry  and  restless.  She 
had  long  since  overcome  her  fear  of  the  camera.  Two  hours 
passed.  Birds  require  a  constant  supply  of  food  and  Mrs. 
Jay  was  at  the  famine  point.  Suddenly  she  spied  her  hus- 
band in  the  tree  beyond  the  flower  beds.  She  left  her  nest 
and  made  for  her  spouse  like  a  flash.  She  perched  just  above 
his  head,  and  then  there  followed  a  scolding  and  berating  that 
has  no  parallel  in  bird  families.  The  madame  called  her  husband 
a  lazy,  shiftless,  good-for-nothing  coward.  She  called  his 
attention  to  the  fact  that  for  two  hours  she  had  sat  under  the 
frowning  face  of  the  awful  thing  in  the  window,  while  he,  lost 
to  all  jayhood  and  to  all  memory  of  courtship  promises,  had 
not  dared  so  much  as  approach  the  nesting-tree,  even  for  the 
moment  needed  to  feed  his  faithful  wife.  For  fully  two  min- 
utes the  air  was  filled  with  jay  ejaculations  of  wrath  and  con- 
tempt, and  none  of  these  ejaculations  came  from  Mr.  Jay. 
He  took  the  tirade  meekly.  The  pitch  of  Mrs.  Jay's  voice, 
coupled  with  the  choice  selection  of  adjectives  which  she 
hurled  at  her  husband,  brought  an  interested  audience,  com- 
posed of  all  the  bird  residents  of  the  neighborhood.  Finally 
madame  broke  off  short  and  made  her  way  back  in  all  haste 


96         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

to  cover  her  eggs  from  the  chill  air  of  the  morning.  The 
instant  his  wife  was  off  for  home,  Mr.  Jay  darted  down  into 
a  thicket  and  at  once  reappeared  with  a  fat  morsel  of  food 
with  which  he  struck  out  like  a  blue  streak  for  the  nest  in  the 
oak.  He  fed  Mrs.  Jay,  and  a  satisfactory  snap-shot  photo- 
graph was  taken  of  the  operation.  After  feeding  his  wife,  the 
husband  looked  at  her  and  uttered  the  one  mellifluous  note 
known  to  the  jay  language,  and  Mrs.  Jay,  womanlike,  was 
mollified. 


CHAPTER  X 

COMEDY   AND   TRAGEDY 

In  the  bird's  year  the  season  of  song  is  the  season  of  trag- 
edy. The  wonder  is  that  during  the  nest-building  time 
birds  have  the  heart  to  sing  at  all.  Danger  is  ever  present, 
and  it  is  probably  not  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  disaster 
attends  at  least  one-half  of  the  attempts  of  the  songsters  to 
rear  their  young.  There  are  so  many  casualties  among  bird 
homes  that  the  nesting  season  holds  for  the  field  student  rather 
more  of  pain  than  of  pleasure.  It  has  struck  me  many  times 
that  the  birds  must  feel  that  the  whole  world  is  against  them 
when  they  are  trying  so  patiently  and  so  bravely  to  see  that 
their  kind  does  not  perish  from  the  earth.  From  the  moment 
that  the  first  egg  appears  the  shadow  of  danger  is  across  the 
threshold  of  the  little  home.  There  are  the  perils  of  wind 
and  flood,  of  egg-loving  snakes,  and  of  egg-collecting  boys. 
A  little  later,  when  the  young  appear,  there  is  danger  from 
prowling  cats  and  looting  owls,  and  from  men  nest-robbers, 
who  pretend  to  think  that  the  proper  sphere  of  a  wild  bird  lies 
within  the  limits  of  a  cage. 

The  books  tell  us  that  many  species  of  birds  build  their 
nests  near  the  habitations  of  men  because  of  the  protection 
that  is  afforded  by  such  locations.  The  theory  is,  that  owls, 
hawks,  and  snakes  avoid  the  vicinity  of  civilization,  and  thus 
the  nesting  birds  are  relieved  from  the  fear  of  the  depredations 
of  these  natural  enemies.  There  is  another  side  to  the  ques- 
tion, however.  The  minute  that  the  bird  places  its  home  on 

97 


98         Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

the  pillar  of  the  porch,  in  the  lilac  bush  of  the  garden,  or  in 
the  maple  at  the  doorstep,  it  invites  destruction  for  itself  and 
young  at  the  claws  of  the  family  cat,  a  creature  which,  unfortu- 
nately, few  households  are  without.  The  very  openness  of 
the  nesting  sites  chosen  makes  of  the  eggs  or  of  the  young  a 
temptation  to  the  badly  trained  boy,  who  nine  times  out  of 
ten  finds  himself  unable  to  resist.  As  a  deduction  from  obser- 
vations that  have  extended  through  many  nesting  seasons,  I 
don't  hesitate  to  say  that  I  think  the  part  of  wisdom  belongs 
to  the  bird  who  builds  in  the  wilds  and  gives  man,  cats,  and 
boys  a  wide  berth. 

It  is  curious  thing  that,  all  things  being  apparently  equal, 
some  of  the  birds  that  nest  in  the  haunts  of  men  have  much  bet- 
ter success  with  their  families  than  have  others.  The  bluejay, 
one  of  the  characteristic  birds  of  the  Middle  West,  is  handi- 
capped in  his  struggle  for  existence  by  his  brilliant  plumage. 
Notwithstanding  this,  the  jay  abounds  and  will  continue  to 
abound  unless  his  traits  of  character  undergo  a  radical  change. 
A  jay,  building  in  an  evergreen  on  one  side  of  a  doorstep, 
will  be  rejoicing  in  five  healthy  offspring  able  to  fly  and  to 
care  for  themselves,  while  the  robin,  building  in  the  maple  on 
the  other  side  of  the  doorstep,  is  bewailing  the  disappearance 
of  its  last  fledgeling  into  the  mouth  of  a  cat.  Accidents  to 
jays'  nests  are  rare.  It  builds  as  strong  a  structure  as  does 
the  robin,  and  as  a  rule,  Madame  Jay  insists  that  the  young 
jays  shall  stay  in  the  nest  until  their  wings  are  strong  and 
fully  feathered.  Robins  have  not  the  same  excellent  control 
over  their  babies.  The  young  robin,  like  the  young  crow  of 
the  children's  story,  gets  restless  and  wants  to  see  the  world 
at  a  time  when  the  only  journey  it  can  make  is  a  high  and 
lofty  tumble  from  the  nest  to  the  ground.  You  may  pick  up 


Comedy  and  Tragedy  99 

a  young  robin,  put  it  back  in  the  nest,  and  you  will  be  called 
upon  within  five  minutes  to  repeat  the  operation.  The  dis- 
tress of  the  old  birds,  when  a  youngster  tumbles  out,  is  pitiful. 
Possibly  in  the  course  of  a  few  eons  they  may  discover  the 
secret  of  parental  control.  At  one  time  I  had  under  obser- 
vation five  robins'  nests  and  six  jays'  nests.  Five  of  the  jay 
broods  were  led  forth  into  the  world  in  safety,  while  disaster 
came  to  four  of  the  robin  households.  It  is  curious  to  note 
that  the  pair  of  robins  that  succeeded  in  raising  a  brood  built 
the  nest  on  a  crossbeam  between  two  pillars  of  a  piazza  which 
was  frequented  by  many  people  all  through  the  day.  It  was 
a  cat  neighborhood.  The  nest  was  so  placed  that  Tom  and 
Tabby  could  not  get  at  it,  though  they  watched  it  daily  from 
every  vantage  point.  This  pair  of  robins  had  more  sense  than 
most  of  the  tribe.  There  were  five  robin  children  in  the  nest. 
When  the  time  came  for  them  to  leave,  the  male  robin  took 
a  perch  just  outside  the  nest  and  coaxed  the  two  strongest  of 
the  fledgeling  birds  to  leave.  They  stood  on  the  edge  of  the 
nest  while  the  father  took  three  or  four  short  flights  by  way 
of  example.  Finally  the  two  little  ones  launched  out  together, 
and  with  their  father  at  their  side  they  succeeded  in  making 
the  first  flight  carry  them  a  distance  of  fully  forty  yards. 
They  plumped  to  the  ground  pretty  hard,  but  in  a  minute 
they  recovered,  and  their  father  soon  urged  them  to  another 
effort,  this  time  upward  to  the  safe  retreat  of  a  heavy  foliaged 
tree.  The  other  three  young  ones  remained  in  the  nest 
twenty-four  hours  longer,  and  were  then  led  forth  by  the 
mother.  For  two  weeks  the  brood  remained  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  nest,  the  father  caring  constantly  for  the  two  that  he  had 
elected  to  take  in  charge,  while  the  mother  looked  after  the 
other  three.  I  watched  the  birds  constantly,  and  never  saw 


ioo       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

either  of  the  parents  feed  a  youngster  that  was  under  the 
other's  care.  There  was  something  strikingly  manlike  in 
the  male /bird's  distribution  of  the  labor.  He  gave  his  wife 
the  three  requiring  the  most  attention  and  took  for  his  own 
share  the  two  lusty  youngsters. 

One  robin's  nest  which  met  with  disaster  was  placed  on 
the  elbow  of  a  rain-pipe  which  was  supposed  to  carry  the  rain- 
water from  the  eaves  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  at  Highland 
Park.  The  chances  are  that  robins  never  made  a  study  of 
rain-water  spouts.  The  experience  of  the  ordinary  house- 
holder is  that  water  pours  out  of  them  at  every  place 
excepting  where  it  is  intended  to  pour  out.  The  Pres- 
byterian pipe  was  no  exception  to  the  general  rule.  When 
the  robin's  nest  was  well  completed,  "the  rains  descended  and 
the  floods  came";  all  the  water  from  the  eave-trough  poured 
down  the  pipe  to  a  point  about  a  foot  above  the  nest  on  the 
elbow,  and  then  shot  out  through  a  hole  and  washed  the  little 
habitation  with  its  burden  of  eggs  to  the  ground  below.  We 
all  know  the  poetical  tale  of  the  sparrow  that  built  its  nest  in 
the 'spout.  We  know  how  the  "bloomin'  rain-storm  washed 
the  bloomin'  sparrow  out."  We  also  know  that  when  the 
rain  stopped  the  sparrow  went  up  the  spout  again  and  there 
fixed  its  habitation,  awaiting  another  flood.  I  can  readily 
believe  this  story  of  a  sparrow.  The  robins  who  lost  their 
home  in  that  north-shore  thunder-storm  started  to  rebuild 
their  nest  on  the  same  rain-pipe  elbow  before  the  pools  in  the 
street  were  thoroughly  dry.  Doubtless  they  felt  that  the 
shadow  of  the  church  made  their  home  sacred  from  the  attack 
of  man,  and  they  were  willing  for  the  safety  thus  secured  to 
run  the  risk  of  more  showers.  Their  second  home  was  washed 
down  within  a  week.  They  went  elsewhere,  and  let  it  be 


Comedy  and  Tragedy  101 

hoped    were    spared    from    the    dangers    of    both    field    and 
flood. 

Chipping  sparrows,  robins,  catbirds,  bluejays,  and  many 
of  the  other  bird  species  which  seek  man's  society  do  not 
resent  a  certain  amount  of  prying  into  their  household  affairs. 
None  of  the  birds  named  will  think  of  deserting  its  home 
simply  because  you  take  a  daily  peep  at  the  eggs  or  occasion- 
ally undertake  to  help  the  parent  birds  out  in  the  matter  of 
feeding  the  young.  Confidence  when  once  established  is 
lasting.  There  are  some  birds,  however,  which  occasionally 
build  under  the  shadow  of  our  walls  who  resent  human  curi- 
osity and  will  desert  their  nests  at  the  first  apparance  of  sup- 
posed danger.  The  rose-breasted  grosbeak  frequently  builds 
in  the  garden  or  in  the  trees  that  shadow  the  sidewalks.  The 
rose-breast  is  a  beauty.  His  life  in  the  spring  is  one  continu- 
ous song.  As  someone  has  put  it,  he  wears  a  blush  rose 
in  his  button-hole,  and  is  the  Beau  Brummel  of  the  birds.  The 
rose-breasts  build  a  flimsy  nest.  It  has  but  little  more  stabil- 
ity than  the  nest  of  the  mourning  dove.  They  are  as  jealous, 
however,  of  approach  to  the  little  home  as  though  it  had 
taken  a  lifetime  in  its  rearing.  When  a  pair  of  the  birds 
build  near  the  house  they  must  not  be  allowed  to  know  that 
the  nesting  site  has  been  discovered.  If  they  see  a  person 
looking  at  their  home  they  will  often  desert  instanter.  A 
pair  of  robins  built  a  nest  in  a  tree  directly  in  front  of  the 
residence  of  a  bird-loving  friend.  One  day  he  saw  some 
school-boys  trying  to  climb  the  tree  to  get  at  the  robin's  nest. 
He  drove  the  boys  away.  A  few  days  afterward  he  discov- 
ered that  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak  was  building  its  nest  in  the 
tree  not  far  above  the  home  of  the  robin.  Then  the  fear 
came  that  the  boys  would  come  back  and  ravage  both  nests. 


102       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

So  the  birds'  friend  took  a  hammer  and  drove  a  lot  of  wire 
nails  into  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  thus  precluding  the  possibility 
of  climbing  it.  "I  may  lose  the  tree,"  said  the  nail-driver, 
"but  I  hope  to  save  the  birds."  He  was  hitting  the  last 
blow  with  the  hammer  when  the  grosbeak  came  with  a 
straw  in  its  mouth.  It  saw  the  man  standing  below,  dropped 
its  building  material,  and  fled.  It  never  came  back.  It  is 
something  more  than  a  pity  that  the  birds  cannot  at  first  sight 
tell  friend  from  foe.  The  robin  sat  on  the  nest  all  through 
the  nail-driving  without  as  much  as  fluttering  a  feather. 

In  the  spring  of  1899  I  found  the  nest  of  a  vesper  sparrow 
in  a  Highland  Park  field.  The  bird  clung  to  its  charge  until 
I  almost  stepped  on  it.  Then  it  left  the  nest  and  gave  an 
acrobatic  performance  which,  had  its  motive  not  been  known, 
would  have  been  laughable.  The  bird  was  counterfeiting 
injury  and  an  inability  to  fly  in  the  endeavor  to  draw  the  sup- 
posed enemy  from  its  treasure.  This  is  a  favorite  trick  of 
many  members  of  the  sparrow  tribe,  and  that  it  is  at  times 
successful  there  isn't  a  doubt.  The  vesper  sparrow  that  was 
performing  for  my  benefit  spread  one  of  its  wings  out  and 
dragged  it  along  the  ground  as  though  it  were  broken.  The 
little  creature  propelled  itself  with  its  other  wing,  which  it 
beat  violently  against  the  grass  blades.  Finally,  when  it  had 
reached  a  point  about  ten  yards  from  the  nest,  it  spread  both 
wings  to  their  fullest  extent  and  skimmed  the  surface  of  the 
green  pasture  as  though  it  were  using  a  pair  of  sculls.  Eventu- 
ally it  flew  away  to  join  its  mate,  who  was  scolding  vociferously 
near  at  hand.  So  far  from  doing  violence  to  the  home  of 
that  devoted  mother,  I  performed  a  service  for  her  by  remov- 
ing from  the  nest  the  egg  which  a  cow-bird  had  deposited 
there  for  the  vesper  sparrow  to  hatch.  The  hatching  of  this 


Comedy  and  Tragedy  103 

parasite  egg  with  the  hatching  of  those  of  the  sparrow  itself 
would  have  meant,  doubtless,  that  the  young  cow-bird,  by  its 
superior  size  and  great  greed,  would  have  received  the  major 
part  of  the  food  to  the  sacrifice  of  its  foster  brothers  and 
sisters.  One  morning,  when  on  my  way  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
vesper  sparrow's  nest,  I  stopped  at  the  fence  and  looked 
across  the  field  to  the  spot  where  I  knew  the  little  home  was 
hidden  in  the  grass.  The  field  was  pasture-land,  and  a  cow 
was  grazing  within  a  few  yards  of  the  sparrow's  nest.  It  drew 
dangerously  near  to  the  grass  clump  where  the  bird  was  brood- 
ing, and  in  another  instant  I  saw  the  sparrow  leave  the  nest 
and  perform  exactly  the  same  series  of  gymnastics  for  the  cow's 
benefit  that  it  had  a  day  or  two  before  for  mine.  Whether 
this  mother  bird  thought  she  could  lure  away  from  her  home, 
through  motives  of  curiosity,  this  terrific  horned  beast  or  not, 
I  cannot  say,  but  the  effort  was  made  in  apparent  good  faith. 
It  is  hard  to  be  obliged  to  make  a  tragedy  out  of  that  into 
which  comedy  has  so  largely  entered.  Before  the  young 
vesper  sparrows  had  been  three  days  out  of  the  shell  one  of  the 
grazing  cattle  put  an  end  to  the  little  ones'  lives  with  a  mis- 
placed step.  Much  more  than  a  month  later  I  saw  a  pair  of 
vesper  sparrows  feeding  four  fledgeling  young  in  the  same  field. 
I  believe  that  the  plucky  little  mother,  rising  superior  to  dis- 
aster, had  succeeded  finally  in  raising  a  promising  family. 

No  bird  better  typifies  the  wild  life  of  the  woods  than  the 
ruffed  grouse,  or  partridge,  as  it  is  commonly  called.  Flushed 
from  its  forest  retreat  in  the  autumn,  the  whir  of  its  wings 
through  the  falling  leaves  is  like  the  whirling  of  a  belted  mill- 
wheel.  The  rush  of  its  flight  through  the  brush  strikes  a  sort 
of  terror  to  the  novice  sportsman  who  stands  with  gun  in  ner- 
vous hands,  nor  thinks  of  shooting  till  the  bolt-like  pace  of 


104       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

the  bird  has  put  it  well  beyond  danger.  This  is  the  ruffed 
grouse  of  the  time  of  the  ripened  shellbark  and  of  the  blood- 
red  sumac.  Then  the  bird's  every  effort  is  for  self-preserva- 
tion. In  the  earlier  year,  almost  before  the  pulsing  fullness  of 
the  spring  has  passed,  the  bird  that  flees  in  the  fall  at  the 
approach  of  the  despoiler  stays  to  dispute  his  right  to  intrude, 
and  if  necessary  to  give  him  battle.  Others  have  told  the 
story  of  the  attack  that  the  female  grouse  will  at  times  make 
upon  the  man  who  stumbles  upon  her  brood  in  the  heart  of 
the  woods.  It  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  but  few  to  witness  the 
exhibition  that  this  wild  bird  gives  of  mother-love  and  cour- 
age. It  was  my  fortune  once  to  have  an  experience  with  a 
mother  grouse  who  was  caring  for  a  brood  of  ten  or  twelve 
downy  young  in  the  depths  of  a  ravine  on  the  government 
reservation  at  Fort  Sheridan.  There  are  not  many  ruffed 
grouse  left  in  the  country  along  the  lake.  The  birds  have 
been  shot  by  market  hunters  and  others  until  the  hearing  of 
a  log  drumming  in  the  spring  is  an  ornithological  epoch.  I 
had  been  at  target  practice  on  the  Fort  Sheridan  rifle  range, 
and  was  on  my  way  from  the  firing  point  to  relieve  a  man 
behind  the  butts.  To  reach  the  objective  point  I  was  forced 
to  go  through  dense  underbrush  to  the  bottom  of  a  deep  ravine. 
I  was  just  about  to  jump  the  little  brook  which  flows  at  the 
base  of  the  shelving  ravine  bank  when  I  heard  a  clucking  and 
hissing  noise.  Before  time  was  given  to  me  to  realize  what 
living  thing  was  present,  there  was  a  rushing  sound,  followed 
by  the  impact  of  a  heavy  body  against  my  knee.  It  was  a 
case  for  a  minute  of  both  mental  and  physical  stagger.  Recov- 
ering enough  to  look  down,  I  saw  two  feet  in  front  of  me  a  hen 
grouse  bridling,  and  with  her  feathers  ruffled  up  until  she 
looked  as  big  as  a  buff-cochin.  At  the  same  time  I  became 


Comedy  and  Tragedy  105 

dimly  aware  that  some  little  creatures,  not  much  bigger  than 
bumblebees,  were  scurrying  for  cover.  In  a  second  Dame 
Grouse  returned  to  the  attack.  She  made  the  onslaught  like  a 
game-cock.  My  knee  was  the  objective  point,  and  this  she 
buffeted  with  her  body  and  struck  with  her  beak.  I  had  a 
Springfield  rifle  in  my  hand,  but  of  neither  rifle  nor  man  was 
that  valiant  mother  afraid.  Had  she  but  known,  it  was 
admiration  rather  than  resentment  that  was  excited  by  her 
attack.  She  prepared  herself  apparently  for  another  assault, 
and  then  suddenly  changing  her  mind,  she  went  whirring  away 
through  the  clustering  trees.  She  had  held  the  attention  of 
the  intruder  until  her  little  ones  had  time  to  secrete  them- 
selves under  the  fallen  leaves.  I  hardly  dared  stir  for  fear  of 
treading  on  one  of  the  innocents.  I  picked  my  way  carefully, 
and  when  I  reached  a  point  half-way  up  the  ravine's  side,  I 
heard  the  mother  grouse  calling  her  chicks  to  the  shelter  of 
her  ample  wings. 


CHAPTER  XI 

SPRING   ON   THE    KANKAKEE 

The  cup  of  the  bird-lover  is  full  who  is  permitted  to  wan- 
der along  the  Kankakee's  wooded  banks  or  to  float  in  a  boat 
on  its  bosom  during  the  early  May  time.  It  is  a  varied  bird- 
life  that  makes  glad  this  river  valley.  The  wood  ducks  nest 
in  the  timber,  the  golden  plover  dot  the  meadows,  the  sand- 
pipers bob  on  the  river  bars,  the  tree  swallows  dip  in  the 
waters,  and  warblers  in  thousands  haunt  the  treetops.  In 
the  early  morning  hours  river,  woodland,  and  marsh  ring  with 
the  bird  chorus. 

It  was  warbler  time,  the  first  week  in  May,  when  three  of 
us  having  a  common  hobby  left  the  great  city  and  took  the 
way  which  led  to  the  pleasant  river  valley.  My  companions 
were  of  the  gentler  sex,  but  with  a  keen  enthusiasm  and  an 
untiring  perseverance  in  the  pursuit  of  field  study.  Our  train 
drew  into  the  little  village  of  Kouts,  Indiana,  where  we  found 
waiting  a  comfortable  democrat  wagon  which  was  to  take  us 
the  last  stage  of  our  journey,  five  miles  across  country  to  the 
banks  of  the  Kankakee.  It  was  after  sundown,  but  some 
sparrow  songs  floated  to  us  from  across  the  fields  and  an 
oriole  whistled  good  night  from  an  elm.  Our  host  had  met 
us,  and  as  we  drove  along  through  the  deepening  dusk,  he 
told  us  that  the  whippoorwill  had  come.  It  was  a  bit  of 
superfluous  information,  for  at  that  instant,  from  a  little 
stretch  of  timber  at  the  side  of  the  road,  the  bird  he  had 
named  called  to  us  softly.  Its  voice  gained  in  volume  as  it 

106 


Spring  on  the  Kankakee  107 

rolled  out  the  syllables  one  after  another.  I  have  read  in  one 
of  the  books  that  William  calls  for  his  thrashing  five  times  in 
succession,  and  then  pauses  for  a  while  before  he  begins  his 
plea  again.  My  birds,  like  those  of  Dr.  Abbott,  are  always 
doing  something  contrary  to  the  books.  That  Kankakee 
whippoorwill  certainly  made  no  pause  for  breath  until  we 
were  well  out  of  hearing.  At  the  time  that  I  had  read  the 
statement  that  the  bird  rested  after  calling  five  times,  I  sought 
a  whippoorwill  haunt  for  the  sole  purpose  of  testing  the 
matter.  When  darkness  had  settled  over  the  wood,  one  of 
the  birds  began  calling.  I  counted  fifty-eight  "whippoor- 
wills"  uttered  in  rapid  succession.  I  gave  up  the  task,  firmly 
convinced  that  it  is  rarely  safe  to  put  down  anything  as  a  bird 
rule  without  making  due  allowance  for  exceptions. 

Another  Kankakee  Valley  whippoorwill  sang  me  to  sleep 
that  night,  and  during  the  occasional  wakeful  moments  caused 
by  the  newness  of  the  surroundings  I  heard  him  still  calling. 
The  night  bird's  voice  was  mingling  in  my  dreams  with  a  note 
of  sweeter  substance  when  I  woke  to  a  consciousness  that  day 
was  breaking,  and  that  an  oriole  was  giving  it  a  jubilant  wel- 
come from  a  maple  at  the  window.  Enthusiasm  took  all  three 
of  us  afield  before  breakfast  for  an  hour  with  the  birds.  One 
of  the  soft  maples  in  the  dooryard.  our  host  told  us,  had  for 
four  successive  years  been  the  home  of  a  pair  of  orioles.  He 
was  firmly  convinced  that  the  two  birds  which  were  then  at 
his  door  were  his  friends  of  other  years.  In  the  maple  next 
the  oriole  home,  site  was  the  empty  tenement  of  a  warbling 
vireo.  My  companions  had  visited  the  valley  the  year  before, 
and  had  found  the  vireo  nest  when  it  held  its  treasure  of  eggs. 
They  told  me  how  the  father  bird  relieved  his  patient  wife  of 
her  household  duties  at  intervals  during  the  day,  and  how  all 


io8       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

the  while  that  he  sat  upon  the  nest  he  sang  sweetly  the  war- 
bling song  that  gives  him  his  name.  Somewhere  in  this  habit 
of  the  vireo  there  is  hidden  a  lesson  for  humankind.  Not 
much  searching  is  needed  to  find  it. 

The  Kankakee  flows  along  not  more  than  a  hundred  yards 
from  our  farm-house  headquarters.  We  started  for  the  river 
bank,  but  found  bird-life  so  abundant  that  we  made  little 
more  than  half  the  journey  before  the  breakfast  bell  sum- 
moned us.  The  field  sparrow,  the  little  fellow  with  the  red 
bill  and  the  chestnut  crown,  sang  his  sweet  note  from  the  fence 
post  and  did  not  appear  at  all  discouraged  because  his  brother 
song  sparrow  was  giving  a  much  better  entertainment  within 
a  rod.  From  a  little  patch  of  bushes  in  the  damp  pasture 
came  the  call,  "Witchety-witchety-witchety,"  and  in  a 
moment  a  Maryland  yellow-throat  showed  his  black-masked 
face  to  us  through  the  tender  green  of  the  foliage.  The  yel- 
low-throat is  a  beauty,  but  one  cannot  say  as  much  for  his 
voice.  There  were  some  chewinks,  perhaps  better  known  as 
towhees,  in  the  pasture,  and  one  of  them  kindly  sang  for  us. 
The  towhees's  song,  it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  has  just 
about  volume  enough  for  a  bird  of  half  its  size.  But  then 
we  mustn't  expect  too  much;  the  towhee  wears  a  beautiful 
suit  of  black,  terra-cotta,  and  white,  and  he  knows  how  to 
show  it  to  advantage.  He  charms  our  color  sense,  and  we 
forgive  him  readily  for  not  being  a  nightingale. 

The  cow  blackbird  is  despised  above  all  feathered  kind. 
It  is  a  parasite,  building  no  nest  of  its  own,  but  depositing  its 
eggs  in  the  homes  of  smaller  birds.  The  warblers  are  gener- 
ally the  ones  imposed  upon.  They  often  seem  unable  to 
detect  the  deception,  and  hatch  the  egg  and  rear  the  cow-bird 
to  a  sacrifice  of  their  own  young.  This  habit  is  too  well 


Spring  on  the  Kankakee  109 

known  to  be  dwelt  upon.  The  cow-bird,  in  the  spring,  has 
just  one  sweet  note.  That  is  to  say,  at  times  this  one  note 
is  sweet.  If  the  bird  tries  to  continue  the  performance  it  fails 
miserably,  producing  something  like  the  sound  of  a  file  drawn 
over  a  lemon-grater.  As  we  stood  that  May  morning  listen- 
ing for  a  repetition  of  the  yellow-throat's  "witchety, "  there 
came  one  liquid  note  from  a  treetop.  In  chorus  we  said, 
" Cow-bird."  The  next  instant  there  followed  note  after  note 
of  liquid  beauty  from  the  same  treetop,  and  shamefacedly  we 
looked  at  one  another  and  said,  "Wood  thrush."  If  greater 
ignominy  can  come  to  bird-students  who  have  haunted  the 
fields  for  years  than  to  mistake  the  note  of  one  of  America's 
sweetest  singers  for  that  of  the  despised  cow-bird,  let  it  be 
named.  The  wood  thrush  forgave  us  for  the  insult  and  heaped 
coals  of  fire  on  our  heads  by  continuing  his  song  as  long  as 
we  staid  to  listen. 

The  catbirds  and  the  brown  thrashers  sang  their  medleys 
from  the  thicket.  The  Kankakee  River  country  is  a  catbird 
and  thrasher  paradise.  We  saw  more  catbirds  during  that 
May  outing  than  we  did  robins.  The  region  affords  the  cat- 
birds ideal  nesting-places,  and  judging  solely  from  numbers 
I  should  say  that  it  will  be  many  generations  before  their 
race  is  run.  A  swamp  extending  back  from  the  river  en- 
croaches upon  the  pasture-land.  We  had  not  left  the  sing- 
ing thrush  far  behind  before  we  started  a  green  heron  from  its 
swamp  retreat.  A  lesser  blue  heron  took  flight  a  moment 
later.  It  is  a  much  rarer  bird  than  its  green  brother.  As  we 
were  about  to  retrace  our  steps  a  great  blue  heron  ceased  its 
frog-hunting  and  flapped  away  leisurely  over  the  trees.  On 
the  way  back  to  the  house  and  to  breakfast,  we  crossed  a 
foot-bridge.  A  male  phcebe  was  sitting  on  a  post  near  at 


no       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

hand.  Out  of  curiosity  I  threw  myself  prone  on  the  wet  sod 
at  the  side  of  the  path  and  peered  under  the  bridge.  I 
thought  I  should  find  something  there,  and  I  did  find  enough 
to  pay  me  for  damp  clothes  and  a  strained  neck.  A  phcebe's 
nest  of  perfect  architecture  was  fastened  to  one  of  the  beams 
of  the  bridge,  with  the  mother  bird  holding  faithfully  by  her 
charge  even  in  the  face  of  the  intruder.  Father  Phoebe  from 
his  fence-post  perch  did  not  seem  at  all  put  out  at  the 
encroachment  on  his  dooryard.  While  the  inspection  of  the 
nest  was  going  on  he  unconcernedly  flew  out,  snapped  up  a 
fugitive  fly,  and  then  went  back  to  his  post.  After  each  of 
us  had  taken  a  peep  at  the  mossy  structure  under  the  bridge 
we  bothered  the  brave  little  mother  no  more.  Within  twenty- 
five  yards  there  was  another  foot-bridge,  and  on  a  cross-beam 
beneath  another  pair  of  phoebes  had  a  nest  half  completed. 

When  the  Kankakee  overflows  its  banks  and  makes  a 
broad  lake  of  a  part  of  the  country  and  a  marsh-land  of  the 
rest,  this  Indiana  region  is  a  favorite  resort  for  gunners. 
Some  of  the  water  birds  linger  late  into  the  spring,  many  of 
them  staying  weeks  after  the  time  that  the  law  first  gives 
them  protection  from  persecution.  Some  of  the  pools  in  the 
meadows  do  not  dry  up  until  June,  and  there  the  hunter  who 
carries  an  opera-glass  instead  of  a  shotgun  has  a  fleeting 
chance  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  strangers.  We  started 
out  after  breakfast  to  seek  the  marshes.  The  way  to  them 
was  along  a  road  which  ran  parallel  to  the  river  and  through 
a  wood  that  was  musical  with  the  voices  of  birds.  The 
orioles  of  the  Kankakee  were  a  revelation  to  me.  They  were 
there  in  great  numbers,  and  were  found  not  only  in  the  trees 
near  the  dwellings  of  men,  but  in  the  depths  of  the  woods. 
I  never  knew  until  that  May  morning  that  an  oriole  could 


Spring  on  the  Kankakee  in 

scream.  We  had  crossed  the  long  bridge  spanning  the  river 
and  entered  on  the  road  through  the  woods,  when  from  above 
our  heads  came  a  scream  of  terror.  It  was  almost  humanlike 
in  its  agony  of  fear.  Looking  up  we  saw  an  oriole  pursued 
by  a  hawk.  It  was  the  oriole  that  was  doing  the  screaming. 
I  took  the  hawk  to  be  the  broadwing,  though  the  identifica- 
tion was  not  certain.  Its  flight  was  lumbering  and  heavy, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  gaining  on  its  quarry  which  was  straining 
every  feather  to  escape.  We  watched  the  chase  with  an 
interest  mingled  with  fear.  Suddenly  a  tree  swallow  appeared. 
I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  the  swallow  had  in  mind  the  sav- 
ing of  the  oriole,  but  save  it  it  did,  whether  the  act  was  one 
of  kindness  or  of  accident.  The  eye  had  trouble  to  follow 
the  swallow's  rapid  flight.  It  passed  between  the  oriole  and 
the  hawk,  staying  its  course  momentarily  as  though  with  a  set 
intent.  The  hawk  saw  the  nearer  bird,  and  reasoning  that 
the  nearer  must  necessarily  be  the  easier  prey,  it  turned 
aside  from  its  pursuit  of  the  oriole  and  followed  the  elusive 
swallow.  The  oriole  made  for  shelter,  while  the  swallow, 
with  doubtless  an  inward  chuckle,  increased  its  pace  and  left 
the  hawk  so  far  in  the  lurch  that  it  gave  up  the  chase  and 
flew  disgustedly  back  over  the  woods. 

In  the  trees  along  the  roadway  we  found  the  black- 
throated  blue  warblers,  the  black  and  white  tree-creepers,  the 
yellow  warblers,  and  the  fiery  redstarts.  These  last-named 
warblers,  which  look  like  diminutive  orioles,  were  lisping  their 
incessant  notes  from  nearly  every  tree.  We  heard  the  call  of 
the  cardinal  in  the  woods.  This  bird  is  not  common  as  far 
north  as  our  Kankakee  hunting  ground,  and  one  brilliant 
specimen  which  flashed  across  the  road  and  disappeared  in 
the  thicket  was  the  only  one  of  its  kind  that  we  saw. 


ii2        Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

The  woods  ended  and  the  marsh  began.  There  was  a 
pool  at  the  edge  of  the  timber,  and  about  it  were  running 
two  spotted  sandpipers.  When  I  was  a  boy  these  tiny 
waterside  dwellers  were  called  "tip-ups."  The  name  fits 
them  to  a  nicety,  for  their  bodies  are  in  constant  motion,  and 
look  like  diminutive  teeter-boards;  first  the  head  is  in  the  air, 
then  down  it  goes,  and  the  apology  for  a  tail  bobs  up.  This 
operation  is  repeated  incessantly.  Some  solitary  sandpipers 
were  flying  about  the  pool  and  the  adjacent  marsh.  Finally, 
to  our  surprise,  one  of  them  lit  on  a  fence  post  within  twenty 
feet  of  us,  and  there  stood  fearlessly  while  we  stared  at  it 
through  our  glasses.  It  is  strange  how  quickly  the  game 
birds  learn  that  the  shooting  season  is  over.  Two  weeks 
before  the  solitary  would  have  given  us  a  wide  berth,  even 
though  we  had  nothing  more  harmful  than  field-glasses  with 
which  to  bring  it  down.  I  wanted  to  put  the  bird  to  flight 
so  that  we  could  see  its  white  markings  to  better  advantage, 
and  I  picked  up  a  stick  to  toss  toward  it.  The  missile  got 
no  farther  than  my  hand,  however,  because  my  gentler- 
minded  companions  begged  me  not  to  abuse,  even  to  that 
extent,  the  bird's  confidence. 

We  flushed  one  after  another  three  jacksnipe  which  were 
feeding  in  the  marsh  at  the  very  edge  of  the  road.  -  They  rose 
with  the  squawk  that  is  translated  into  "scaipe"  by  most  of 
the  books.  A  few  jacksnipe  nest  in  these  Indiana  marshes, 
and  thousands  of  them  would  make  their  homes  here  if  the 
vicious  practice  of  spring  shooting  could  be  stopped.  The 
birds  are  harried  daily  during  the  mating  time.  They  know 
no  rest  from  dog  or  gun  until  they  get  into  the  far  North. 
There  is  precious  little  sport  in  spring  jacksnipe  shooting.  If 


Spring  on  the  Kankakee  113 

there  must  be  shooting,  it  should  be  put  off  until  the  fall 
when  the  sport  is  as  keen  as  the  air. 

A  dark  cloud  was  moving  rapidly  over  the  marsh.  Sud- 
denly its  color  changed  to  silver,  and  then  as  quickly  it  went 
to  black  again.  It  was  a  flock  of  May  plover  that  had  lingered 
late  on  this  choice  feeding-ground.  The  May  plover  is  also 
called  grass  snipe  and  grass  plover;  neither  of  the  three  is  its 
right  name.  It  is  the  pectoral  sandpiper.  The  birds  go  in 
large  flocks,  and  twelve  or  fifteen  of  them  are  often  killed 
at  one  discharge  of  the  gun.  When  the  dead  and  wounded 
have  dropped  from  the  flock,  the  remnant  will  often  whirl 
about  and  fly  back  over  the  fallen  comrades,  only  to  be 
met  with  another  deadly  discharge.  The  wonder  is  that 
there  are  any  pectoral  sandpipers  left  to  add  life  to  the  spring 
marshes. 

We  walked  back  through  the  woods  and  across  the  river 
bridge  to  a  boat-house.  There  we  hired  a  comfortable  and 
safe-looking  snub-nosed  boat  for  a  trip  on  the  broad  stream. 
The  woman  who  rented  us  the  boat  said  that  notwithstand- 
ing her  occupation  she  had  never  been  on  the  river  in  her 
life,  and  in  it  only  once.  That  once  she  fell  in  from  the  bank. 
She  also  told  us,  for  she  saw  that  we  were  bird  enthusiasts, 
that  she  loved  the  birds,  but  knew  very  little  about  them. 
" There  is  one  bird,  however,"  she  said,  "to  whose  note  I  am 
never  tired  of  listening,  though  I  don't  know  the  singer's 
name.  The  song  is  like  the  sound  of  the  tinkling  of  the  tri- 
angle. There,  the  bird  is  singing  now";  and  as  she  spoke 
the  rich  notes  of  the  wood  thrush  came  across  the  river.  I 
think  that  those  who  have  once  heard  the  "tinkling"  of  the 
little  musical  instrument  called  the  triangle  will  admit  that  the 


ii4        Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

woman's  description  of  the  wood  thrush's  song  cannot  be 
improved  upon. 

We  shaped  our  course  up  the  stream.  The  Kankakee 
woods  where  they  edge  the  river  are  the  haunts  of  the  pro- 
thonotary  warbler,  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  member  of  a 
notedly  beautiful  family.  The  prothonotary  owes  its  long 
name  to  the  fact  that  it  wears  a  yellow  coat  such  as  the  pro- 
thonotaries,  or  court  clerks,  wore  once  upon  a  time.  We  had 
looked  forward  to  meeting  these  warblers  with  a  good  deal  of 
pleasure,  but  were  disappointed  to  find  that  only  a  few  of 
them  had  arrived  from  their  southern  winter  resort.  One 
pair,  however,  came  so  close  to  us  when  we  landed  at  a  pic- 
turesque point  on  the  river  that  we  had  a  golden  opportunity 
in  a  double  sense  to  get  an  adequate  idea  of  the  bird's  ways 
and  beauty.  The  prothonotaries  have  a  habit  of  constantly 
flying  back  and  forth  over  the  river.  Their  yellow  bodies  are 
reflected  in  its  smooth  surface,  and  the  observer  has  a  double 
color  treat  every  time  the  bird  crosses.  The  prothonotary 
builds  in  a  hole  in  a  tree  or  in  a  decayed  stump,  after  the 
manner  of  the  bluebird,  and  the  nests  are  only  less  interesting 
than  the  birds  themselves. 

The  tree  swallows  of  the  Kankakee  Valley  believe  that  the 
customs  of  their  ancestors  are  good  enough  for  the  descend- 
ants. They  build  in  colonies  in  hollow  trees,  like  their  fore- 
fathers. The  tree  swallows  that  wander  away  into  the  haunts 
of  men  make  their  homes  in  bird-houses  or  in  crevices  in 
buildings.  Nearly  every  group  of  dead  tree  trunks  along  the 
Kankakee  River  has  its  swallow  colony.  There  were  thou- 
sands of  the  birds  flying  up  and  down  the  river,  dropping 
down  now  and  then  to  dip  in  its  waters.  We  passed  many 
of  them  sitting  upon  the  tips  of  dead  branches  or  upon  the 


WARBLING-  VIREO. 


Spring  on  the  Kankakee  115 

scarred  tops  of  stumps.  The  tree  swallow's  under  parts  are 
pure  white,  while  its  back  and  shoulders,  when  the  sun  strikes 
them  full  and  fair,  are  a  shimmering  green. 

We  turned  the  prow  of  our  little  boat  toward  the  shore 
and  landed  by  some  great  trees  under  which  the  Indians  once 
must  have  roamed.  There  two  male  redstarts  gave  us  a 
diversion  by  having  a  pitched  battle,  first  on  a  limb,  then  in 
the  air,  and  then  on  the  limb  again.  We  stayed  in  the  vicin- 
ity for  certainly  half  an  hour,  and  though  we  did  not  watch 
them  constantly,  I  think  that  these  little  warblers,  whose 
tempers  are  as  fiery  as  their  plumage,  never  once  gave  over 
fighting.  We  found  a  red-bellied  woodpecker  on  one  of  the 
big  trees.  This  locality  is,  I  think,  about  its  northern  limit, 
though  one  careful  observer  has  reported  the  presence  of  one 
of  these  woodpeckers  in  Lincoln  Park,  Chicago.  We  heard 
the  note  of  the  tufted  titmouse.  It  was  the  same  "Peter- 
peter-peter"  that  I  had  heard  early  in  March  in  the  south- 
ern Hoosier  hills. 

As  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen,  we  floated  homeward 
with  the  gentle  current  of  the  river.  When  the  sun  declined  the 
wood  thrushes  found  voice  once  more.  Their  songs  attended 
us  all  the  way  to  the  farm-house.  Perhaps  the  birds  knew  of 
their  listeners'  appreciation,  and  were  moved  sympathetically 
to  sing  until  it  was  time  for  the  vesper  sparrow  to  close  the 
day's  concert, 


CHAPTER  XII 

"FROM  HAUNTS  OF  COOT  AND  HERN" 

When  the  snow  melts  in  March,  and  the  spring  rains  beat 
on  the  land,  the  banks  of  the  Kankakee  River  can  no  longer 
hold  their  burden  of  waters.  The  flood  rises  rapidly  and 
spreads  over  the  outlying  meadows  and  woodlands.  In  Stark 
County,  Indiana,  the  broadening  river  forms  a  considerable 
body  of  water  known  as  English  Lake.  Summer  comes 
before  the  flood  recedes  to  leave  great  pools  and  morasses  in 
its  wake  as  reminders  of  its  spring-time  visit.  In  June  these 
English  Lake  reed-grown  stretches  are  "the  haunts  of  coot 
and  hern,"  of  the  redwings,  the  marsh  wrens,  and  the  rails. 
In  the  earlier  spring  great  flocks  of  ducks,  geese,  and  plover 
make  a  resting  and  feeding  place  of  the  reaches  of  swamp  and 
open  water.  There  is  a  world  of  bird-life  throughout  the 
whole  English  Lake  section.  Perhaps  there  better  than  any 
other  place  in  the  Middle  West  may  be  studied  the  habits  of 
the  water  birds.  A  Chicago  shooting  club  owns  much  of  the 
marsh,  and  as  all  hunting  is  done  under  rules  which  have 
regard  for  the  preservation  of  species,  the  birds  still  throng  to 
the  locality  with  the  first  touch  of  spring-time  warmth  or  of 
autumn  chill. 

In  the  third  week  of  May,  1901,  four  weeks  after  the 
shooting  season  had  closed,  I  tramped  and  rowed  through  the 
English  Lake  section  with  Ruthven  Deane,  the  president 
of  the  Illinois  Audubon  Society.  It  is  something  to  be  famil- 
iar with  many  birds;  it  is  something  better  to  know  them  all. 

116 


"From  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern"     117 

I  learned  much  on  that  trip,  both  of  birds  and  of  methods  of 
observation.  Mr.  Deane  is  closer  to  Nature's  heart  than  most 
men,  and  of  him  she  seems  to  have  made  a  confidant.  We 
reached  the  English  Lake  club-house  just  at  dusk,  but  all  the 
bird  voices  were  not  hushed.  While  waiting  the  call  to  sup- 
per we  strolled  down  to  the  banks  of  the  little  flooded  inlet 
which  makes  a  water  highway  for  the  rowboats  from  the  house 
to  the  river.  A  vesper  sparrow  sang  to  us  as  we  walked 
through  the  deepening  darkness.  From  the  damp  thicket  on 
the  further  side  of  the  inlet  came  the  voice  of  the  Maryland 
yellow-throat.  He  was  as  insistent  in  his  calling  as  is  the 
custom  with  his  tribe  when  once  roused  to  vocal  effort,  but 
even  the  yellow-throat's  insistence  gave  way  before  the 
screams  and  scoldings  of  a  pair  of  robins.  I  have  heard 
robins  raise  disturbances  before.  They  are  often  the  com- 
mon scolds  of  a  bird  neighborhood,  but  the  performance  of 
the  pair  that  we  heard  that  night  rather  outdid  in  volume  of 
sound  anything  of  which  I  had  supposed  the  robin  to  be  capa- 
ble. It  was  too  dark  to  investigate  the  cause  of  the  trouble, 
and  so  the  matter  was  put  off  until  sunrise.  The  robins 
apparently  wished  to  make  it  certain  that  we  were  impressed 
with  their  trouble,  if  trouble  it  were,  for  the  last  thing  that 
we  heard  on  closing  the  door  of  the  dining-room  behind  us 
was  a  noise  that  was  nothing  less  than  a  screech,  and  it  came 
from  both  birds  in  unison. 

Just  as  the  sun  touched  the  treetops  the  next  morning  we 
were  out  of  doors.  The  song  sparrow  was  attune,  an  orchard 
oriole  piped  to  us  from  a  maple  at  the  doorstep,  and  a  brown 
thrasher  was  singing  somewhere  in  the  wet  thicket  beyond  the 
boat-houses.  The  robins  were  silent.  I  went  directly  to  the 
scene  of  the  disturbance  of  the  night  before,  and  soon  found 


n8       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

Master  Robin  perched  on  a  fence  post  with  a  big,  fat  worm 
in  his  mouth.  It  is  barely  possible  that  he  had  worn  his 
voice  out  the  night  before,  or  more  likely,  he  was  afraid  he 
would  drop  the  worm,  else  he  would  have  scolded  me  and 
perhaps  sworn  a  little.  I  fully  expected  to  find  nothing  less 
than  a  rifled  robin  household.  The  duet  of  the  night  before 
could  hardly  be  accounted  for  on  less  tragic  grounds.  I  soon 
discovered,  however,  that  neither  black-snake  nor  small  boy 
robber  had  been  about,  for  the  robin,  after  looking  me  over 
for  a  minute,  flew  to  a  crotch  low  down  in  a  maple  across  the 
inlet,  and  dividing  his  worm  prize  into  bits,  fed  some  concealed 
young.  I  went  to  the  tree  and  climbing  a  few  feet  looked 
into  the  nest.  There  were  four  naked  young  ones  within. 
They  were  certainly  not  more  than  eight  or  ten  hours  old. 
It  is  my  firm  conviction  that  the  racket  that  the  father  and 
mother  bird  made  the  night  before  was  their  method  of  rejoic- 
ing that  unto  them  several  children  were  born. 

The  bird-lover's  best  time  abroad  is  usually  before  break- 
fast. We  walked  that  morning  along  the  edge  of  the  swamp 
and  listened  to  the  "fluting"  of  the  redwings.  In  a  little 
clump  of  trees,  whose  foliage  was  nearly  full,  we  found  the 
redstarts  and  the  yellow  warblers.  There  were  other  warblers 
in  their  company,  but  they  gave  us  only  a  fleeting  glimpse, 
and  though  we  followed  through  the  tangled  thickets  as  they 
went  from  tree  to  tree,  we  had  to  give  them  up  in  despair. 
Warbler  time  is  the  time  to  try  the  bird-lover's  soul.  The 
elusive  creatures  invariably  give  the  observer  a  crook  in  the 
back,  and  not  infrequently  give  him  a  crook  in  the  temper. 
A  pair  of  doves  flew  by.  We  had  heard  their  notes  ever  since 
we  had  left  the  house.  There  is  something  more  than  mournful 
in  the  dove's  note.  To  me  there  is  something  that  the  chil- 


MARYLAND  YELLOW-THROAT. 


"From  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern"     119 

dren  call  "creepy"  in  the  sound.  Doves  are  abundant 
throughout  the  Middle  Western  country,  but  how  long  they 
will  continue  so  is  a  question.  Our  wise  legislators  in  many 
states  have  been  putting  these  birds  on  the  game  list  so  that 
they  may  be  shot  and  turned  over  to  the  cook.  Before  long 
the  wise  ones  will  be  planning  an  open  season  for  humming- 
birds and  kinglets. 

The  doves  were  out  of  sight,  but  hardly  out  of  mind,  when 
my  companion  caught  sight  of  a  male  bluebird  sitting  on  a 
stump  about  forty  yards  away.  The  stump  had  holes  in  it, 
any  one  of  which  looked  like  an  ideal  place  for  a  bluebird's 
nest.  Presently  the  female  bluebird  appeared.  She  took  a 
perch  by  the  side  of  her  husband.  "In  truth,"  we  said,  "the 
birds  have  a  nest  in  the  stump."  Then  we  looked  at  them 
through  our  glasses  and  became  more  firmly  convinced  than 
ever  that  the  nest  was  just  below  them,  for  the  glass  revealed 
the  fact  that  Mrs.  Bluebird  had  a  fat  grub  in  her  bill.  Soon, 
however,  she  left  her  perch  and  flew  to  a  tree  about  twenty 
yards  to  our  left.  We  said  to  ourselves,  "Mrs.  Bluebird  saw 
us  looking  at  the  stump  and  so  she  has  left  it  for  another 
place  in  order  to  distract  attention  from  her  home."  Then 
it  was  that  Father  Bluebird  also  quitted  the  stump  and  took 
a  station  near  his  spouse.  Both  birds  were  restless  and 
apparently  anxious.  They  moved  to  another  tree  only  a  few 
feet  distant,  evidently  trying  to  make  us  forget  all  about  the 
stump  and  the  little  homestead  that  it  held. 

We  were  standing  close  to  a  small  birch  tree.  My  left 
hand  was  against  its  trunk  while  with  my  right  I  was  using 
the  field-glass.  I  took  my  eyes  off  the  bluebirds  a  moment 
and  saw  that  there  was  a  hole  in  the  birch-tree  trunk  within 
an  inch  of  my  thumb.  I  called  my  companion's  attention  to 


120        Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

it.  He  laughed,  and  walking  over,  looked  into  the  cavity. 
There,  snuggling  down  into  their  straw-lined  nest,  were  four 
young  bluebirds  almost  fully  fledged  and  apparently  about 
ready  for  their  first  flight  in  life.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blue- 
bird saw  that  their  home  was  discovered,  their  trouble  was 
great.  The  madame  dropped  the  choice  morsel  intended  for 
her  young  and  called  plaintively.  We  had  no  intention  of 
harrying  that  birch-tree  home.  We  backed  away  from  it  as 
quietly  and  as  quickly  as  we  could,  and  in  a  few  minutes  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Mrs.  Bluebird  pay  her  family  a  visit. 
If  she  had  not  recovered  the  grub  which  she  had  intended  as 
a  bit  of  breakfast  for  her  offspring,  she  had  found  another 
exceeding  quick,  for  we  saw  her  feed  the  babes  before  the 
bushes  shut  off  our  view  of  the  hole  in  the  birch. 

On  our  way  back  to  breakfast  we  passed  a  pigsty.  It 
was  just  like  all  other  pigsties  in  the  round  world.  There 
was  plenty  of  wallowing  room  and  plenty  of  mud  for  the 
porkers.  The  manager  of  the  English  Lake  club-house  had 
paid  a  visit  to  this  pen  early  one  morning,  and  there  in  the 
mud,  in  the  very  center  of  the  circling  pigs,  was  a  cardinal 
grosbeak,  singing  his  sweet  notes  to  an  audience  that  could 
do  nothing  but  grunt  its  approval.  Surely  this  was  a  literal 
casting  of  pearls  before  swine. 

It  was  still  early  morning  when  we  took  a  boat  and  poled 
our  way  down  the  grass-grown  inlet  toward  the  sweeping 
Kankakee.  As  we  made  our  way  laboriously  along  the  little 
waterway  we  flushed  a  solitary  sandpiper  that  flew  away 
reluctantly  from  a  choice  feeding-ground.  Glancing  back,  I 
saw  the  bird  return  to  the  spot  before  we  were  a  dozen  yards 
away.  A  Baltimore  oriole  flew  over  our  heads,  carrying  nest- 
ing material.  I  watched  the  bird  to  see  where  it  was  going 


"  From  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern"     121 

to  swing  its  cradle.  It  took  to  a  treetop  perch,  however,  and 
made  no  movement  toward  its  nesting-place  until  we  were 
well  out  of  sight.  It  was  Sunday,  May  iQth,  and  the  river  was 
still  flowing  with  nearly  even  banks.  We  started  down 
stream  letting  the  current  take  us  almost  as  it  would.  We 
passed  a  little  rift,  startling  into  flight  a  half-dozen  "tip-ups" 
that  circled  the  prow  of  our  boat  and  made  off  up  the  river, 
peeping  complainingly.  We  reached  a  patch  of  timber  with 
plenty  of  deadwood  still  standing,  but  leaning  heavily  toward 
the  river.  There  we  landed,  for  we  hoped  to  find  the  pro- 
thonotary  warblers  building  in  the  rotting  stumps.  We  found 
the  birds  in  all  the  beauty  of  their  orange  dress,  but  if  they 
had  decided  on  homestead  sites  they  kept  their  secret  well. 

Walking  up  the  river  bank  a  little  way  to  the  edge  of  the 
towering  timber,  we  found  a  man  and  two  boys  fishing.  They 
had  had  no  luck.  It  was  too  early,  they  said,  and  there  was 
still  too  much  water  in  the  river.  It  was  while  talking  to 
them  that  we  saw  a  moving  streak  in  the  water.  The  ripple 
with  its  shining  trail  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and  in  a  moment 
we  saw  that  it  was  a  snake  with  uplifted  head,  that  was  swim- 
ming for  the  bank  at  our  feet.  I  have  never  liked  snakes  well 
enough  to  care  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  them.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  take  well  to  heart  Dr.  Abbott's  teaching 
of  the  beauty  and  friendliness  of  the  serpent  tribe.  The  snake 
that  was  swimming  the  Kankakee  that  spring  morning  was 
surely  four  feet  long,  and  it  had  a  certain  beauty  of  coloring 
that  pleased  the  eye  even  while  the  mind  loathed.  The  man 
of  the  fishing  party  said  the  snake  visitor  was  a  blue-racer  and 
that  it  was  "as  pizen  as  a  rattler."  We  doubted  the  truth  of 
this  latter  assertion,  but  in  the  face  of  it  we  could  not  but 
admire  the  cool  indifference  of  one  of  the  small  boy  fishers, 


122       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

who  sat  dabbling  his  bare  feet  and  legs  in  the  water  within  a 
few  inches  of  the  place  where  the  blue-racer  was  trying  to 
land.  The  man  made  a  jab  at  the  snake  with  his  fishing-pole 
and  then  struck  at  it  with  a  club,  but  the  reptile  drew  its 
slimy  length  safely  out  of  sight  among  the  spreading  roots  of 
a  waterside  tree. 

Snakes  are  like  misfortunes,  they  never  come  singly.  We 
had  left  the  little  fishing  party  only  a  few  yards  behind  when 
we  came  within  an  ace  of  stepping  on  a  chocolate-colored 
snake  about  three  feet  in  length.  It  was  a  hideous-looking 
reptile.  It  was  blunter  and  fatter  at  the  head  and  about  the 
body  than  any  snake  I  had  ever  encountered  in  my  rambles. 
From  the  plump  part  it  tapered  off  rapidly  to  a  sharp-pointed 
tail.  When  Nature  painted  this  creature  she  added  a  little 
dark  ginger-root  to  the  colors  with  which  she  had  striped  the 
hideous  gila  monster,  and  then  had  laid  the  pigment  on  thick. 
Neither  of  us  waterside  travelers  that  morning  could  give  the 
snake  a  name,  and  though  I  have  searched  diligently  since, 
I  have  been  unable  to  find  in  the  books  anything  that  looked 
like  it. 

It  is  not  a  very  far  cry  from  the  snake  to  one  species  of 
bird.  The  cow-bird  is  regarded  by  its  feathered  fellows  in 
much  the  same  light  as  human  beings  regard  serpents.  We 
hardly  had  banished  the  chocolate-colored  crawler  from  our 
minds  when  we  came  across  a  cow-bird  sneaking — there  is  no 
other  word  for  it — its  way  down  through  the  branches  of  a 
willow.  It  took  only  a  moment  to  show  the  bird's  object. 
A  newly  completed  yellow  warbler's  nest,  a  perfect  gem  of 
bird  architecture,  was  fastened  in  the  crotch  of  some  slender 
twigs  of  the  willow,  not  more  than  four  feet  from  the  ground. 
The  cow-bird  was  about  to  deposit  an  egg  in  the  little  down 


"From  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern"     123 

structure  and  to  trust  to  the  goodness  of  heart  of  the  warbler 
to  act  as  foster-mother.  I  threw  a  club  at  the  cow-bird  and 
frightened  it  away.  About  ten  minutes  afterward  I  went  to 
the  willow  tree  once  more,  and  there  was  the  parasite  again 
acting  in  the  same  sneaking  way  that  it  had  at  first.  I  fright- 
ened it  away  once  more,  but  rebuffs  of  that  kind  count 
nothing  with  this  bird.  I  haven't  the  faintest  doubt  that  a 
visit  to  the  vicinity  of  the  warbler's  nest  later  in  the  season 
would  have  shown  two  little  gold-hued  birds  trying  their  best 
to  keep  well  filled  the  maw  of  a  young  cow-bird  whose  bulk 
was  greater  than  that  of  both  foster-parents  combined.  The 
yellow  warbler  apparently  knows  that  the  cow-bird's  egg  has 
no  right  in  its  nest.  At  times  the  warbler  will  desert  its 
home  after  the  depositing  of  the  alien  egg.  More  often, 
however,  the  patient  little  creature  will  hatch  out  the  egg 
that  has  been  foisted  upon  it  and  will  feed  and  tend  the  young 
cow-bird  to  the  sacrifice  of  its  own  offspring. 

On  the  river  bank  not  far  from  the  home  of  the  yellow 
warbler  we  found  the  half-completed  nest  of  a  pair  of  red- 
starts. We  first  saw  the  female  with  a  bit  of  downy  stuff  in 
her  bill.  She  paid  little  heed  to  us  and  by  watching  her 
movements  we  soon  discovered  her  secret.  The  nest  was  a 
dainty  little  structure  placed  about  fifteen  feet  from  the 
ground,  close  to  the  trunk  of  a  small  tree,  where  it  was  held 
firmly  in  place  by  two  slender,  upward-growing  twigs.  I  have 
spoken  elsewhere  of  the  abundance  of  the  redstarts  in  the 
Kankakee  Valley.  Both  at  Kouts  and  at  English  Lake  I 
found  them  to  be  by  far  the  most  abundant  birds  of  the 
warbler  family.  No  one  need  regret  their  abundance,  for  they 
are  useful  in  their  lives  and  of  a  surpassing  beauty  of  plumage. 

When  we  had  taken  to  our  boat  again  and  had  drifted  a 


124       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

mile  with  the  current  of  the  stream,  we  turned  to  the  shore 
once  more  and  drew  our  little  craft  up  on  a  muddy  bank  that 
separated  the  river  from  a  great  insweeping  marsh,  guarded 
on  all  sides  by  big  native  trees.  We  left  the  boat  and  plowed 
our  way  into  the  swamp.  '  We  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a 
Louisiana  water-thrush  as  we  left  the  river  bank;  a  catbird 
gave  one  strain  of  melody  that  ended  in  a  sharp  "meou"  as 
he  discovered  us.  Two  or  three  elusive  sparrows  dodged  in 
and  out  of  the  thicket  at  the  edge  of  the  marsh.  The 
endeavor  to  identify  a  sparrow  under  such  circumstances  is 
one  of  the  trying  things  of  life.  I  soon  gave  over  all  thought 
of  the  sparrows,  however,  for  my  companion,  knowing  every 
bird-haunt  of  this  bird-favored  country,  was  leading  me 
straight  to  a  feeding-ground  of  the  great  blue  herons.  The 
swamp  broadened  out,  the  timber  giving  way  to  the  right  and 
left.  Suddenly  from  the  rank  grass  growth  not  more  than 
thirty  yards  ahead  of  us  there  rose  a  great  bird  that  flapped 
its  huge  wings,  stretched  out  its  great  neck,  and  trailing  its 
lanky  legs  behind,  made  straight  for  the  sky-line  at  the  tree- 
tops.  Only  a  few  yards  beyond  another  heron,  surprised  at 
its  breakfast  table,  left  the  well-furnished  board  reluctantly. 
One  after  another  the  herons  rose  before  our  advancing  foot- 
steps. I  felt  a  little  conscience  stricken  at  having  interrupted 
their  feasting.  We  retraced  our  steps  soon  and  before  we 
reached  our  boats  the  herons  doubtless  were  back  at  their 
repast  of  frogs,  slugs,  and  delicate  small  fry,  with  which  the 
marshes  of  the  Kankakee  River  abound.  I  never  before  had 
seen  a  wild  great  blue  heron  at  such  short  range.  In  first 
taking  flight  the  bird  is  an  awkward  creature.  It  reminded 
me  of  nothing  so  much  as  of  a  man  who  is  in  a  hurry  to  catch 
a  car,  but  has  to  stop  to  gather  up  four  or  five  bundles  before 


"From  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern"     125 

starting  to  run.  The  heron's  bundles  are  its  long  neck,  head 
and  beak,  and  its  two  lanky  legs.  It  seems  to  lose  a  minute's 
time  trying  to  dispose  of  these  impedimenta  properly  before 
it  spreads  its  wings  for  the  start. 

We  left  the  entrance  to  the  heron's  retreat  and  pulled  our 
way  up  the  river.  Going  against  the  current  of  the  Kanka- 
kee  means  the  mingling  of  some  work  with  the  day's  play. 
The  journey  of  ten  minutes  going  down  is  a  journey  of  twenty 
minutes  going  up.  There  are,  however,  plenty  of  bird  excuses 
for  stopping  to  rest.  A  small  heron  pitched  on  to  an  island 
in  midstream,  fully  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of  our  boat.  The 
island  was  grass-grown,  but  we  succeeded  in  marking  the  spot 
of  the  bird's  disappearance  fairly  accurately.  We  made  up 
our  minds  that  we  would  try  to  see  how  close  we  could 
approach  before  this  wary  bird  of  the  bog  should  take  flight. 
We  kept  in  the  open  water  until  we  reached  a  place  abreast 
of  where  the  heron  had  disappeared,  then  turning  the  prow  of 
our  boat  toward  the  island,  a  few  lusty  strokes  sent  us  ashore. 
The  bird  had  gone  into  the  grass  not  ten  yards  from  the 
water.  We  searched  the  spot  thoroughly  with  our  glasses 
but  saw  nothing.  I  was  about  to  jump  out  of  the  boat  for 
the  purpose  of  flushing  the  heron  when  my  wiser  friend  told 
me  if  I  jumped  off  into  the  mud  I  could  never  get  out  again. 
I  was  incredulous,  but  after  I  had  poked  an  oar  down  into 
the  black  oozy  stuff  without  meeting  with  the  slightest  resist- 
ance I  concluded  to  stay  in  the  boat.  I  had  hardly  pulled 
the  oar  out  of  the  mud  before  the  heron  rose  and  made  off 
for  a  treetop.  It  was  a  little  green  heron,  called  in  many 
country  sections  "fly-up-the-creek. "  It  is  probable  that  had 
not  the  protective  coloring  of  the  bird  been  so  perfect  we 
could  have  readily  picked  it  out  from  its  surroundings  as 


1 26       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

it  stood  in  the  lush  grasses  of  the  island.  When  the  heron 
reached  the  tree  toward  which  it  flew,  it  took  perch  on  a  dead 
limb  and  there  silhouetted  against  the  sky  made  a  perfect 
bird  picture. 

We  left  the  green  heron  staring  at  the  sky  and  once  more 
pulled  hard  against  the  stream.  Our  destination  now  was 
English  Lake  proper,  which  opens  out  to  the  right  and  left  of 
the  railroad  bridge.  Beneath  this  structure  the  contracted 
Kankakee  sweeps  swiftly.  By  the  time  of  the  year  of  our 
visit,  well  into  the  month  of  May,  the  lake  was  a  lake  in 
name  only,  though  the  land  in  many  places  was  still  under 
water.  About  half  a  mile  above  the  bridge  we  saw  ahead  of  us 
on  the  open  water  a  great  flock  of  ducks.  Our  glasses  told  us 
beyond  much  doubt  that  the  birds  were  blue-bills,  more  scienti- 
fically known,  perhaps,  as  scaup  ducks.  We  pulled  directly  to- 
ward the  flock.  What  follows  shows  how  quickly  wild  birds 
gain  confidence  after  the  shooting  season  closes.  We  reached  a 
point  well  within  gunshot  of  the  blue-bills  before  they  paid 
any  attention  to  us.  We  had  no  advantage  of  cover  whatso- 
ever. A  month  before  these  same  birds  would  have  been  up 
and  off  while  the  boat  even  to  their  keen  vision  had  been  but 
a  black  dot  upon  the  water.  We  drew  closer.  One  of  the 
ducks  rose  and  in  another  instant  the  whole  air  was  awhir 
with  their  wings.  I  was  kneeling  on  the  forward  seat  of  the 
boat  looking  ahead  through  my  glasses  at  the  blue-bills. 
Suddenly  I  heard  the  squawk  of  a  duck  within  four  feet  of 
me.  I  turned  in  amazement  and  found  that  the  duck's  cry, 
so  true  to  nature,  was  coming  from  between  the  lips  of  my 
companion.  He  was  calling  the  blue-bills.  The  birds  heard 
that  counterfeit  call,  and  deceived  completely,  circled  and 
swept  by  within  a  few  yards  of  our  boat.  Wary  as  the  birds 


"  From  Haunts  of  Coot  and  Hern"     127 

are,  when  once  fooled  they  are  fooled  utterly,  and  too  often 
to  their  sorrow  in  the  shooting  season. 

On  a  mud  bank  beyond  the  reach  of  water  where  the 
blue-bills  had  been  paddling  we  saw  some  birds  flying,  and 
moving  about  on  the  ground  by  turns.  We  succeeded  in 
getting  close  enough  to  say  good  morning  to  them  all.  They 
were  plover,  known  by  the  somewhat  inelegant  name  of  lesser 
yellow-legs.  These  birds,  much  sought  after  by  sportsmen, 
seemed  like  the  blue-bills  to  know  that  the  shooting  season  was 
over,  and  that  on  this  game  preserve  at  least  no  one  was  to 
harm  them.  Near  the  yellow-legs  we  found  solitary,  spotted, 
and  red-backed  sandpipers,  and  the  ring-necked  plover.  The 
birds  were  all  as  tame  as  chickens.  We  went  ashore  at  a 
place  where  there  seemed  to  be  some  certainty  of  a  firm  foun- 
dation for  our  footsteps  and  started  on  a  hunt  for  marsh- 
wrens.  We  found  none,  but  we  flushed  a  few  jacksnipe  and 
took  it  for  granted  from  the  fact  of  their  late  tarrying  that 
they  were  to  nest  in  the  English  Lake  country. 

The  snipe,  the  plover,  the  sandpipers,  in  fact  all  the  shore 
birds  and  the  deep-water  birds  with  them,  form  one  of  the 
most  interesting  groups  for  the  purposes  of  study.  The  birds 
are  too  little  known  to  the  student  who  is  not  likewise  a 
sportsman.  Most  of  them  are  with  us  only  during  the  shoot- 
ing season,  when  approach  is  difficult.  Then  again,  the  very 
nature  of  their  haunts  presents  an  obstacle  to  familiar  knowl- 
edge. It  is  hard  work  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  them. 
Their  friendship,  if  it  is  to  be  won,  must  be  had  at  the 
expense  of  much  mud,  some  wading  and  not  a  few  duckings. 
If  the  legislators  were  wise  enough  to  stop  spring  shooting, 
thousands  of  our  shore  and  water  birds  that  now  go  to  the 
far  North  to  breed  would  build  their  nests  in  the  fields  and 


ia8       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

marshes  of  the  Middle  Western  states,  and  then  there  would 
be  some  chance  to  gain  their  confidence  and  to  learn  their 
ways. 

I  left  the  shore  birds  behind  with  a  keenness  of  regret.  I 
never  before  had  succeeded,  in  a  double  sense,  in  getting  so 
close  to  them.  In  the  afternoon  of  that  May  day  we  went 
once  more  afield  to  see  and  to  hear  our  dry  land  friends.  It 
was  soon  forced  home  to  us  that  all  birds  have  their  share  of 
water,  for  a  heavy  rain-storm  set  in  and  drove  us  and  the 
songsters  to  shelter.  Passing  through  a  bit  of  woodland  on 
our  way  to  the  protection  of  the  club-house  porch,  we  flushed 
a  drowsy  whippoorwill.  It  flew  silently  and  heavily  for  a  few 
yards  and  then  went  to  earth  again.  In  a  few  hours'  time, 
however,  it  was  alert  enough,  for  I  am  sure  it  was  this  bird 
that  repeated  its  quavering  cry  again  and  again  as  a  sort  of  a 
good  by  to  us  as  we  boarded  the  train  in  the  dusk  of  evening 
and  sped  away  cityward. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    REACHES    OF    THE    PRAIRIE 

In  the  journey  southwest  from  Chicago  the  traveler  hour 
after  hour  passes  over  a  prairie  country.  Nowhere,  as  far  as 
eye  can  reach,  is  there  a  hill  to  hedge  in  these  seemingly 
limitless  fields.  It  needs  no  native  of  these  parts  to  explain 
to  the  traveling  stranger  why  it  is  that  this  great  reaching 
plain  is  called  the  Grand  Prairie.  There  is  a  grandeur  apart 
from  mountains,  canons,  and  rushing  rivers.  It  is  the  gran- 
deur that  attaches  to  the  thought  of  vast  extent,  unbroken 
and  unrestricted. 

The  Grand  Prairie  is  the  home  of  the  birds  that  love  the 
level  grass-grown  stretches,  the  great  corn-fields,  and  the  low 
swales  that  hold  their  moisture  even  in  the  burning  heat  of 
summer.  The  meadowlarks  nest  in  countless  numbers  all 
over  the  face  of  the  prairies.  The  Western  lark  is  a  somewhat 
smaller  bird  than  its  Eastern  cousin,  and  it  is  far  more 
friendly.  Go  where  you  will  on  the  prairies  in  the  spring-time 
you  will  hear  the  lark's  clear,  sweet,  whistling  note. 
Sometimes  the  bird's  music  has  a  bell-like  quality,  but  I  have 
always  been  pleased  to  think  that  this  bit  of  sweetness  is  for 
the  special  benefit  of  Madame  Meadowlark,  hidden  away  on 
her  nest  in  the  prairie  grass.  An  attempt  was  made  recently 
in  the  Illinois  legislature  to  put  the  meadowlark  on  the  game 
list.  The  farmer  members  said  that  the  bird  was  too  good  a 
friend  to  be  shot  for  pot-pies,  and  the  bill  never  went  beyond 
the  first  reading.  I  spent  part  of  one  winter  in  a  wooded  section 

129 


130       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

of  southeastern  Texas.  Nothing  surprised  me  more  than  to 
find  the  meadowlarks  there  in  abundance,  and  making  their 
habitation  in  the  woods.  The  woods  were  open,  to  be  sure, 
but  the  surroundings  were  totally  unlike  those  which  the  lark 
seeks  in  its  Northern  summer  home. 

The  horned  or  shore  lark  is  another  common  bird  of  the 
open  prairies.  There  are  two  varieties,  the  horned  lark 
proper,  and  the  prairie  horned  lark.  Both  of  the  birds  occur 
in  the  Middle  Western  states.  They  sing  on  the  wing,  but 
their  notes,  while  not  absolutely  unmusical,  have  but  little  to 
commend  them  to  the  ear.  With  one  exception,  my  experi- 
ence with  these  larks  has  been  that,  apart  from  the  breeding 
season,  they  go  in  small  detached  flocks.  The  one  exception 
was  the  sight  of  a  flock  of  the  birds  flying  above  a  great  field 
about  sixty  miles  south  of  Chicago.  I  don't  dare  venture  to 
give  an  estimate  of  the  number  of  individuals  in  the  gathering. 
The  old  comparison  of  the  swarm  of  gnats  is  too  weak  to 
hold.  No  flock  of  blackbirds  that  I  have  ever  seen  equaled 
in  size  this  gathering  of  the  larks.  The  birds  were  constantly 
going  to  the  ground  in  mass,  and  then  rising  again  in  a  sort  of 
hovering  flight.  Every  lark  in  the  vast  concourse  was  singing 
its  twittering  song.  It  was  the  last  week  in  March,  and 
before  three  weeks  had  passed  the  birds  had  separated  and 
many  of  them  were  nesting.  On  April  i$th  I  found  a  nest 
containing  five  eggs  on  the  ground  within  a  few  feet  of  a  pool 
of  water,  the  surface  of  which  was  frozen.  I  flushed  the 
lark  from  the  nest,  and  after  taking  one  fleeting  glimpse 
at  her  egg  treasures,  I  went  hastily  away.  The  bird  was 
back  covering  the  eggs  before  I  had  gone  a  distance  of  ten 
feet  in  my  retreat.  How  the  horned  larks,  building  as  early 
as  they  do,  manage  to  bring  up  such  a  numerous  progeny 


HOUSE    WREN. 


The  Reaches  of  the  Prairie         131 

in  the  face  of  perils  of  frost  and  flood  is  beyond  my  wit  to 
explain. 

The  prairie-chickens  and  the  quail  are  still  abundant 
throughout  the  Middle  West.  In  some  of  the  states  good 
laws  have  resulted  in  an  increase  in  quail  numbers,  and  the 
prairie-chickens  in  many  sections  fairly  may  be  said  to  be 
holding  their  own.  These  birds  live  veritably  in  the  shadow 
of  death.  They  are  shot  ruthlessly,  and  yet  they  have  learned 
to  match  their  own  cunning  against  that  of  man.  They  are 
in  very  truth  game  birds,  and  one  cannot  scrape  acquaintance 
with  them  on  the  same  terms  with  which  he  meets  the  robin 
and  the  bluebird.  Nevertheless,  that  walk  afield  in  the  cool 
of  the  evening  will  lack  much  when  the  whistle  of  Bob-White 
fails  to  come  down  the  wind  from  the  fence  post  near  the 
corn  field. 

There  are  places  in  plenty  on  the  Grand  Prairie  where 
birds  that  are  not  essentially  field  lovers  make  their  homes. 
Along  the  tree-bordered  streams,  in  the  trees  of  the  village 
streets,  and  about  the  farm-houses  may  be  found  nearly  the 
whole  range  of  songsters,  with  the  woodpeckers,  the  flycatch- 
ers and  the  rest.  It  was  while  on  an  outing  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  nearer  the  hearts  of  the  prairie  birds  that  I  had  an 
interesting  experience  with  the  members  of  a  bird  family,  that 
I  was  going  to  say  wouldn't  know  a  prairie  if  they  saw  it.  I 
stayed  for  a  month  in  the  early  summer  in  a  little  village  on 
the  Grand  Prairie.  I  lived  during  my  stay  in  what  was  half 
hotel,  half  farm-house.  At  one  time  in  the  life  of  the  pro- 
prietor it  was  his  determination  to  have  his  place  as  hotel-like 
as  circumstances  would  admit,  and  to  this  end  he  had  put  up 
a  real  lamp-post  which  held  in  position  a  steady  light  for 
the  direction  of  possible  travelers.  Not  many  guests  were 


132       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

attracted  and  the  light  fell  into  disrepute;  the  wick  was  no 
longer  trimmed  and  the  match  no  longer  applied.  The  post, 
however,  was  suffered  to  stand.  It  happened  that  it  stood 
within  ten  feet  of  my  ground  floor  bedroom  window.  The 
morning  after  my  arrival  at  the  little  prairie  inn  I  was  awak- 
ened by  a  sweet  song  from  without.  I  drew  the  curtain  aside 
and  discovered  the  singer.  It  was  a  house  wren  that  had 
taken  perch  on  the  top  of  the  lamp-post  and  was  saluting  the 
rising  sun.  The  little  fellow  sang  all  the  time  I  was  dressing, 
and  for  the  next  two  weeks  I  don't  think  that  I  knew  five 
minutes  of  the  daylight  hours  to  pass,  while  I  was  in  the  vi- 
cinity of  the  house,  that  the  wren's  song  was  absent  from  my 
ears.  He  certainly  took  the  palm  for  musical  industry,  and  I 
am  glad  to  record  that  he  afterward  proved  as  industrious  in 
what  some  people  may  claim  to  be  more  useful  lines,  though 
he  is  a  savage  who  doubts  that  music  has  its  uses. 

The  lamp-post  was  surmounted  by  a  conical-shaped  tin 
arrangement.  There  were  apertures  at  the  edges,  made  so  as 
to  provide  for  proper  combustion  of  the  light.  It  did  not 
take  me  long  to  find  out  that  a  pair  of  house  wrens  had  pre- 
empted the  tin  top  of  the  lamp-post  for  a  home.  I  have  said 
that  the  house  wren  in  his  morning  solo  was  saluting  the 
rising  sun.  He  was  doing  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  was 
singing  to  his  mate,  who,  just  below  him,  was  busy  keeping 
her  eggs  warm.  Birds  always  sing  for  the  benefit  of  their 
mates.  I  lay  for  ten  minutes  one  day  on  the  ground  under  a 
tall  osage  orange  from  the  top  of  which  a  brown  thrasher 
was  singing  his  ravishing  song.  My  only  thought  was  that 
the  thrasher  was  singing  to  me.  I  flattered  myself.  I  finally 
saw  a  movement  in  the  thick  part  of  the  tree  just  below  the 
singer's  perch,  and  in  another  instant  I  discovered  the  pres- 


The  Reaches  of  the  Prairie          133 

ence  of  the  female.  She  had  been  there  the  whole  time,  and 
it  was  upon  her  that  the  brown  lover  above  had  been  shower- 
ing his  vocal  sweets.  That  experience  taught  me  a  lesson  in 
humility. 

It  did  not  take  me  long  to  make  a  friend  of  the  house 
wren.  Perhaps  it  was  toleration  rather  than  friendship  he 
extended.  Here  is  humility  again,  for  I  cannot  get  over  the 
brown  thrasher  experience.  The  wren  would  let  me  stand  at 
the  foot  of  the  lamp-post  with  my  head  within  three  feet  of 
him.  After  his  first  fear  was  over  he  would  not  stop  his  song 
at  my  approach.  I  cannot  understand  to  this  day  how  such 
a  little  throat  could  hold  such  a  volume  of  song.  Mrs.  Wren 
seldom  left  the  nest.  Her  husband  would  take  food  to  her. 
He  had  the  secret  of  the  lurking  place  of  many  spiders,  and 
his  food-collecting  was  but  the  work  of  a  minute.  I  do  not 
think  that  the  male  bird  once  relieved  his  wife  of  the  duties 
of  incubation.  She  made  no  complaint  as  far  as  I  could  dis- 
cover. The  wren  had  charged  me  no  admission  to  his  musical  * 
entertainments  but  I  found  a  chance  to  repay  him.  I  saved 
his  home  from  being  carried  off  bodily  by  some  village  small 
boys.  I  witnessed  the  leading  forth  of  the  young  wrens  from 
the  lamp-post  home.  They  came  out  one  at  a  time.  It 
seemed  as  if  they  would  never  stop  coming.  Seven  of  them, 
one  after  another,  took  a  diagonal  course  to  the  grass.  The 
mother  soon  coaxed  them  to  a  woodpile  about  which  they 
stayed  for  a  week.  There  was  perhaps  something  in  the 
cabalistic  number,  seven.  None  of  the  little  ones  met  with 
harm,  though  there  were  two  full-grown  cats  on  the  premises. 
While  the  young  were  in  the  nest  both  the  parents  were  kept 
busy  feeding  them.  Not  far  from  the  house  was  a  brick 
wall,  Ivy  clambered  over  a  part  of  its  surface.  The  wall 


134       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

was  half  sunlight,  half  shadow,  and  it  was  the  home  of  thou- 
sands of  spiders.  The  wrens  had  discovered  the  insects  long 
before,  for  it  was  from  the  direction  of  the  wall  that  the  male 
bore  spiders  to  his  sitting  mate.  I  have  seen  it  stated  in 
the  books  that  the  wrens  feed  their  young  about  thirty  times 
an  hour.  My  lamp-post  wrens  made  a  much  better  average 
than  that.  I  learned  from  my  host  of  the  inn  that  the  wrens 
had  built  on  the  lamp-post  top  for  three  years.  I  trust  that 
the  same  pair  will  make  music  and  kill  spiders  at  the  same  old 
stand  for  years  to  come. 

This  question  of  the  feeding  of  the  young  wrens  brings  to 
mind  the  fact  that  in  many  bird  households  some  of  the  young 
grow  much  faster  than  the  others.  This  has  been  accounted 
for  on  the  ground  that  the  bigger  youngsters  receive  the 
greater  share  of  the  food,  either  through  the  possible  favorit- 
ism of  the  parents  or  because  the  adult  birds  are  unable  to 
remember  which  of  the  offspring  they  fed  last.  It  is  my 
belief,  based,  however,  upon  only  two  observations,  that  the 
old  birds  feed  the  young  ones  impartially  and  in  turn.  In 
many  human  families  some  of  the  boys  and  girls  are  sturdier 
than  their  brothers  and  sisters.  In  these  human  families  it 
will  be  found  generally  that  the  weaker  ones  get  the  more 
attention  and  the  better  care.  There  are  reasons,  doutbless, 
for  individual  cases  of  slow  growth  and  feeble  constitutions  in 
bird  families  as  well  as  in  the  families  of  the  humankind.  I 
once  saw  the  fledgeling  members  of  a  wood  pewee  household 
ranged  side  by  side  on  the  dead  limb  of  a  tree  growing  out  of 
the  depths  of  a  ravine.  A  bridge  spanned  the  ravine  from 
bank  to  bank  and  ran  close  to  the  treetop  upon  which  the 
young  flycatchers  were  perched.  One  of  the  parent  birds  sat 
on  the  limb  at  the  head  of  the  family  line.  Every  minute  or  two 


The  Reaches  of  the  Prairie          *35 

the  parent  would  launch  out  into  the  air,  catch  a  flying  insect, 
return  to  the  limb,  and  poke  the  morsel  into  the  open  bill  of 
one  of  the  young.  As  soon  as  another  fugitive  fly  happened 
along  the  operation  was  repeated,  but  the  old  bird,  as  cap- 
ture succeeded  capture,  invariably  would  feed  the  youngster 
whose  turn  it  was  to  be  fed.  Not  once  did  two  insect  morsels 
go  down  the  same  throat  twice  in  succession.  If  one  of  the 
young  received  more  food  than  another,  it  simply  arose  from 
the  fact  that  some  of  the  bug  specimens  captured  were  larger 
than  others.  In  an  hour's  time  the  parent  bird  made  forty 
apparently  successful  hunting  trips.  Several  times  either  the 
aim  was  missed  or  the  bird  ate  the  quarry  itself.  It  may  be 
argued  that  it  is  an  easy  matter  for  a  mother  with  her  three 
children  ranged  in  line  on  a  limb  to  keep  in  mind  the  order  of 
feeding,  whereas  when  the  youngsters  are  all  jumbled  up  in  a 
nest,  and  perhaps  constantly  changing  places,  the  keeping  the 
feeding  order  in  the  parent's  head  may  be  impossible.  It  hardly 
seems  that  we  are  giving  credit  for  too  much  intelligence  to  a 
robin  or  a  bluebird  or  a  jay  when  we  say  that  doubtless  the 
parents  know  one  youngster  from  another  as  well  as  any 
human  mother  knows  the  difference  between  Tom  and  Bill, 
or  Maud  and  Jenny. 

The  mourning  dove  is  one  of  the  most  abundant  birds  of 
the  Grand  Prairie.  The  farmers  say  that  it  dearly  loves  corn. 
The  result  of  this  claim  of  the  farmer  has  been  that  the  dove 
has  been  placed  upon  the  list  of  game  birds,  and  is  now  shot  on 
sight  in  every  Illinois  field  from  Cook  County  to  Grand  Tower. 
The  law  granting  the  right  to  shoot  the  doves  was  passed  only 
recently.  That  is  why  it  is  the  birds  are  still  abundant.  It 
was  always  a  source  of  wonder  to  the  bird-student  that  the 
tribe  of  mourning  doves  was  so  great  even  under  the  condi- 


i3-6        Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

tions  of  the  law's  protection.  The  bird  lays  but  two  eggs, 
and  the  nest  is  so  poorly  constructed  that  a  heavy  rain-storm 
frequently  utterly  demolishes  it.  The  mourning  dove's  nesting 
habits  are  erratic.  In  some  sections  of  the  country  it  builds 
only  upon  the  ground,  while  in  other  sections  the  nest  is 
invariably  placed  either  in  a  tree  or  on  a  stump  top.  One 
thing  in  favor  of  the  perpetuation  of  the  mourning  dove's 
species  is  the  fact  that  the  birds  generally  nest  twice  in  a  sea- 
son. I  saw  a  curious  thing  once  in  a  Grand  Prairie  orchard. 
A  male  mourning  dove  was  feeding  two  fledgeling  young  that 
were  perched  on  a  limb  not  four  feet  removed  from  the  spot 
where  the  mother  bird  was  sitting  on  two  newly  laid  eggs.  I 
met  the  father  dove  frequently  during  the  next  week.  He 
had  led  his  charges  away  from  the  nest,  but  he  was  attending 
faithfully  to  the  duties  of  feeding  the  youngsters  and  of 
teaching  them  to  fly.  The  nest  with  its  eggs  was  on  a  limb 
that  had  been  broken  away  partly  from  the  body  of  the  tree. 
How  the  eggs  were  contained  by  the  few  wisps  of  straw  and 
the  twig  or  two  that  did  service  as  a  nest  was  a  puzzle.  As 
it  was  the  mother  had  to  be  content  that  season  with  one 
brood,  for  a  heavy  wind  broke  the  limb  on  which  her  second 
home  was  placed  completely  away  from  the  tree  trunk  and 
sent  eggs  and  nest  tumbling  to  the  ground. 

In  the  same  Grand  Prairie  orchard  I  found  the  nest  of  a 
yellow-billed  cuckoo,  which  showed  but  little  more  evidence 
of  a  builder's  ability  than  did  that  of  a  mourning  dove. 
From  beneath  the  limb  upon  which  it  was  placed  one  could 
see  the  sky  through  the  nest.  There  were  four  eggs  in  the 
ramshackle  structure,  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  say  that  they 
escaped  destruction  in  the  storm  that  brought  disaster  to  the 
home  of  the  dove.  The  cuckoo  loves  caterpillars.  When  a 


The  Reaches  of  the  Prairie          137 

father  and  a  mother  cuckoo  have  four  lusty  young  ones  in  the 
nest,  as  was  finally  the  case  with  this  Grand  Prairie  pair,  they 
will  do  more  good  in  the  way  of  caterpillar-slaying  than  will 
four  pairs  of  any  other  bird  species  under  the  sun.  There  is 
something  uncanny  about  the  cuckoo.  Its  movements  as  it 
glides  along  the  branches  through  the  thick  foliage  suggest 
the  wanderings'of  a  restless  spirit.  The  bird  can  make  plenty 
of  noise  when  it  chooses,  but  when  it  is  being  watched  it 
usually  preserves  a  silence  that  strengthens  the  uncanny  feel- 
ing that  its  movements  impart. 

There  are  thirty-five  kinds  of  American  cuckoos,  so  it  is 
said,  but  only  two  of  them,  the  black-billed  and  the  yellow- 
billed,  are  familiar  to  those  of  us  who  search  the  northern 
fields  of  the  Middle  West.  In  general  appearance  the  two 
birds  are  much  alike,  the  main  difference  being  expressed  by 
their  respective  names.  The  yellow-billed  cuckoo  is  much 
the  more  common  in  nearly  all  places.  The  chances  are  that 
you  will  hear  the  bird  before  you  see  it,  for  its  note  attracts 
instant  attention.  Do  not  expect  the  American  cuckoo  to 
say  " Cuckoo. "  It  won't;  the  utterance  of  that  well-known 
note  is  left  to  the  English  bird,  and  to  the  little  wood  and 
metal  creatures  that  poke  their  heads  out  of  the  tops  of  Swiss 
clocks  every  hour  and  proclaim  the  time.  The  cuckoo's  note 
sounds  almost  exactly  like  the  first  four  or  five  utterances  of 
a  stuttering  person  who^  is  trying  hard  to  twist  his  tongue 
into  shape  to  say  some  simple  word.  When  you  hear  from 
the  heart  of  some  thick-leaved  tree  a  sound  like  "uk-uk-uk- 
uk-uk-uk-uk-uk,"  you  may  make  up  your  mind  that  the 
cuckoo  has  stopped  long  enough  from  his  laudable  work  of 
caterpillar  eating  to  attempt  to  say  a  few  words.  In  many 
farming  districts  the  cuckoo  is  known  as  the  rain  crow,  because 


138       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

it  is  supposed  to  wax  noisy  just  before  a  shower.  I  have 
known  the  bird  to  be  a  poor  prophet,  and  one  that  soon 
became  without  honor  even  with  those  who  hitherto  had 
pinned  to  it  their  faith.  I  never  knew  the  cuckoos  to  be  so 
noisy  as  they  were  one  July  month  in  northern  Illinois  when 
the  drought  killed  almost  every  green  thing  in  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

G.  N.  SHRIKE,  BUTCHER 

One  has  to  have  something  of  the  savage  in  him  to  enjoy 
thoroughly  the  study  of  the  shrike.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
close  daily  observance  of  the  bird  involves  some  little  sacrifice 
for  the  person  whose  nature  is  tempered  with  mercy.  The 
shrike  is  essentially  cruel.  It  is  a  butcher  pure  and  simple, 
and  a  butcher  that  knows  no  merciful  methods  in  plying  its 
trade.  More  than  this,  the  shrike  is  the  most  arrant  hypo- 
crite in  the  whole  bird  calendar.  Its  appearance  as  it  sits 
apparently  sunning  itself,  but  in  reality  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
for  prey,  is  the  perfect  counterfeit  of  innocence.  The  great 
northern  shrike  is  no  mean  vocalist.  Its  notes  are  alluringly 
gentle,  and  to  paraphrase,  "It  sings  and  sings  and  is  a  villain 
still." 

There  is  one  compensation  beyond  the  general  interest  of 
the  thing  for  the  student  who  has  to  endure  the  sight  of  the 
sufferings  of  the  shrike's  victims  in  order  to  get  an  adequate 
idea  of  its  conduct  of  life.  The  redeeming  thing  is  found  in 
the  fact  that  in  the  winter  time  the  great  majority  of  the 
shrike's  victims  are  the  pestilential  English  sparrows,  whom 
every  bird-lover  would  be  willing  to  see  sacrificed  to  make  a 
shrike's  supper,  though  he  might  regret  the  attending  pain 
pangs. 

My  own  observations  of  the  shrike  have  been  limited  to 
the  city  of  Chicago  and  to  the  fields  immediately  beyond  its 
walls.  For  those  unfamiliar  with  the  subject  it  may  be  best 


140       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

to  say  that  in  the  winter  season  the  shrike  is  abundant  in  the 
parks  of  the  great  smoky  city  by  the  lake,  and  that  not  infre- 
quently it  invades  the  pulsing  business  heart  of  the  town.  No 
one  ever  saw  the  placidity  of  the  shrike  disturbed  in  the  least. 
It  will  perch  on  the  top  of  a  small  tree  and  never  move  so 
much  as  a  feather,  barring  its  tail,  which  is  in  well-nigh  con- 
stant motion,  when  the  clanging  electric  cars  rush  by  or  when 
the  passing  wagons  shake  its  perch  to  the  foundation. 

The  great  northern  shrike  reaches  the  city  from  its  habi- 
tat beyond  the  Canada  line  about  the  first  of  November. 
For  four  years  in  succession  I  saw  my  first  northern  shrike  of 
the  season  on  November  1st,  a  day  set  down  in  the  church 
calendar  for  the  commemoration  of  "All  Saints."  It  is  emi- 
nently in  keeping  with  the  hypocritical  character  of  Mr. 
Shrike,  sinner  that  he  is,  to  put  in  an  appearance  on  so  holy 
a  day.  From  the  time  of  his  coming  until  late  March,  and 
sometimes  well  into  April,  the  shrike  remains  an  urban  resi- 
dent and  harries  the  sparrow  tribe  to  his  heart's  content. 

As  far  as  my  own  observation  goes,  the  great  northern 
shrike  in  winter  does  not  put  very  much  food  in  cold  storage. 
I  have  never  seen  many  victims  of  the  bird's  rapacity  impaled 
upon  thorns.  Perhaps  I  should  qualify  this  statement  a  bit 
by  saying  that  I  have  never  seen  many  victims  hanging  up  in 
one  place.  I  have  watched  carefully  something  like  a  score 
of  the  birds,  and  while  every  one  occasionally  hung  up  one  of 
its  victims,  there  was  nothing  approaching  the  "general  store- 
house" of  food,  so  often  described.  It  is  my  belief  that  this 
habit  of  impaling  its  prey  upon  thorns  or  of  hanging  it  by  the 
neck  in  a  crotch  is  one  that  is  confined  largely  to  the  summer 
season,  and  especially  to  the  nesting  period. 

The  great  northern  shrike  has  been  said  by  some  writers 


G.  N.  Shrike,  Butcher  141 

to  be  a  bully  as  well  as  a  butcher.  I  have  never  seen  any 
evidence  of  this  trait  in  its  character.  It  does  not  seem  to 
care  for  what  some  small  human  souls  consider  the  delight  of 
cowing  weaker  vessels.  When  the  shrike  gives  chase  to  its 
feathered  quarry  it  gives  chase  for  the  sole  purpose  of  obtain- 
ing food.  While  the  bird  is  not  a  bully  in  the  sense  in  which 
I  have  written,  it  displays  at  times  the  cruelty  of  a  fiend.  It 
has  apparently  something  of  the  cat  in  its  nature.  It  delights 
to  play  with  its  prey  after  it  has  been  seized,  and  by  one  swift 
stroke  reduced  to  a  state  of  helplessness. 

Every  morning  during  the  month  of  February,  1898,  a 
shrike  came  to  a  tree  directly  in  front  of  my  window  on  Pear- 
son Street,  Chicago.  The  locality  abounded  in  sparrows, 
and  it  was  for  that  reason  the  shrike  was  such  a  constant 
visitor.  The  bird  paid  no  attention  to  the  faces  at  the  win- 
dow, and  made  its  excursions  for  victims  in  plain  view.  The 
shrike  is  not  the  most  skilled  hunter  in  the  world.  About 
three  out  of  four  of  his  quests  are  bootless,  but  as  it  makes 
many  of  them  it  never  lacks  for  a  meal.  The  Pearson  Street 
shrike  one  day  rounded  the  corner  of  the  building  on  its  way 
to  its  favorite  perch,  and  encountering  a  sparrow  midway 
struck  it  down  in  full  flight.  The  shrike  carried  its  struggling 
victim  to  the  usual  tree.  There  it  drilled  a  hole  in  the  spar- 
row's skull  and  then  allowed  the  suffering,  quivering  creature 
to  fall  toward  the  ground.  The  butcher  followed  with  a 
swoop  much  like  that  of  a  hawk,  and  catching  its  prey  once 
more,  bore  it  aloft  and  then  dropped  it  again  as  it  seemed  for 
the  very  enjoyment  of  witnessing  suffering.  Finally  when 
the  sparrow  had  fallen  for  the  third  time,  it  reached  the 
ground  before  the  shrike  could  reseize  it.  The  victim  had 
strength  enough  to  flutter  into  a  small  hole  in  a  snow  bank, 


142       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

where  it  was  hidden  from  sight.  The  shrike  made  no  attempt 
to  recapture  the  sparrow.  It  seemingly  was  a  pure  case  of 
"out  of  sight,  out  of  mind."  In  a  few  moments  it  flew 
away  in  search  of  another  victim.  The  sparrow  was  picked 
up  from  the  snow  bank  and  put  out  of  its  misery,  for  it  was 
still  living.  There  was  a  hole  in  its  skull  as  round  as  though 
it  had  been  punched  with  a  conductor's  ticket  clip. 

It  has  been  my  experience  that  the  great  northern  shrike 
hunts  most  successfully  when  it,  so  to  speak,  flies  down  its 
prey.  If  it  gets  a  small  bird  well  started  out  into  the  open, 
and  with  cover  at  a  long  distance  ahead,  the  shrike  generally 
manages  to  overtake  and  overpower  its  victim.  If  the  quarry, 
however,  is  sought  in  the  underbrush  or  in  the  close  twined 
branches  of  the  treetop,  it  generally  succeeds  in  eluding  the 
butcher.  One  of  the  most  interesting  incidents  of  all  my  bird 
observations  was  that  of  the  attempted  capture  by  a  great 
northern  shrike  of  a  small  brown  creeper.  The  scene  of  the 
action  was  near  the  south  end  of  the  Lincoln  Park  lagoon  in 
Chicago.  The  creeper  was  nimbly  climbing  a  tree  bole, 
industriously  picking  out  insects,  as  is  its  custom,  when  a 
shrike  dropped  down  after  it  from  its  high  perch  on  a  tree 
which  stood  close  and  overshadowed  the  one  from  whose  bark 
the  creeper  was  gleaning  its  breakfast.  The  shrike  was  seen 
coming.  The  creeper,  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,  flattened 
itself  and  clung  convulsively  to  the  tree  trunk.  Then  recov- 
ering, it  darted  to  the  other  side  of  the  bole,  while  the  shrike 
brought  up  abruptly  and  clumsily  just  at  the  spot  where  the 
creeper  had  been.  The  discomfited  bird  went  back  to  its 
perch.  The  creeper  rounded  the  tree  once  more,  and  down 
went  the  shrike.  The  tactics  of  a  moment  before  were 
repeated,  the  shrike  going  back  to  its  perch  chagrined  and 


G.  N.  Shrike,  Butcher  143 

empty  clawed.  Five  times  it  made  the  attempt  to  capture 
the  creeper,  and  every  time  the  little  bird  eluded  its  enemy 
by  a  quick  retreat.  It  was  a  veritable  game  of  hide  and  seek, 
amusing  and  interesting  for  the  spectator,  but  to  the  birds  a 
game  of  life  and  death.  Life  won.  I  ever  have  believed 
thoroughly  that  the  creeper  thought  out  the  problem  of  escape 
for  itself.  The  last  time  the  shrike  went  back  to  its  perch 
the  creeper  did  not  show  round  the  trunk  again,  but  instead 
flew  away,  keeping  the  bole  of  the  tree  between  itself  and  its 
foe.  It  reached  a  place  of  safety  unseen.  The  shrike 
watched  for  the  quarry  to  reappear.  In  a  few  moments  it 
grew  impatient  and  flew  down  and  completely  circled  the 
tree.  Then,  seemingly  knowing  that  it  had  been  fooled,  it 
left  the  place  in  disgust. 

Of  the  boldness  of  the  great  northern  shrike  there  can  be 
no  question.  It  allows  man  to  approach  within  a  few  feet 
and  looks  him  in  the  eye  with  a  certain  haughty  defiance, 
showing  no  trace  of  nervousness,  save  a  flirting  of  the  tail, 
which  is  a  characteristic  of  the  bird  and  in  no  way  attribu- 
table to  fear  or  uneasiness.  One  morning  early  in  March, 
when  the  migration  had  just  started,  I  saw  two  shrikes  on  the 
grass  in  the  very  center  of  the  ball-ground  at  the  south  end 
of  Lincoln  Park.  They  were  engaged  in  a  pitched  battle, 
and  went  for  each  other  much  after  the  manner  of  game 
cocks.  The  feathers  literally  flew.  I  looked  at  them  through 
a  powerful  field-glass  and  saw  a  small  dark  object  on  the  grass 
at  the  very  point  of  their  fighting.  Then  I  knew  that  the 
battle  was  being  waged  for  the  possession  of  an  unfortunate 
bird  victim.  The  birds  kept  up  the  fight  for  fully  two  min- 
utes. Then,  being  anxious  to  find  out  just  what  the  dead 
bird  was  which  had  given  rise  to  the  row,  I  walked  rapidly 


144       Birds  of  Lakeside  and  Prairie 

toward  the  combatants.  They  paid  no  heed  to  me  until  I 
was  within  twenty  feet  of  the  scene  of  their  encounter.  Then 
they  flew  away.  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the  much-ruffled  body 
of  the  little  victim  lying  on  the  grass,  and  walking  toward  it 
I  stooped  over  to  pick  it  up.  At  that  instant,  as  quick  as  the 
passing  of  light,  one  of  the  shrikes  darted  under  my  hand, 
seized  the  quarry,  and  made  off  with  it.  It  was  an  exhibition 
of  boldness  that  did  not  fail  to  win  admiration.  I  did  not 
have  the  chance  to  learn  what  bird  it  was  that  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  the  shrikes'  rapacity  and  had  been  the  cause  of 
that  battle  royal. 

The  great  northern  shrike,  when  it  is  attempting  to  cap- 
ture a  mouse,  or  a  small  bird  that  has  taken  refuge  in  a  bush, 
hovers  over  the  quarry  almost  precisely  after  the  manner  of 
the  sparrow-hawk.  There  are  few  more  fascinating  sights  in 
nature  than  that  of  the  bird  with  its  body  absolutely  motion- 
less, but  with  its  wings  moving  with  the  rapidity  of  the  blades 
of  an  electric  fan.  Sharply  outlined  against  the  sky,  it  fixes 
the  attention  and  rouses  an  interest  that  leaves  little  room  for 
sympathy  with  the  intended  victim  that  one  knows  is  cower- 
ing below.  A  mouse  in  the  open  has  little  chance  for  escape 
from  the  clutches  of  the  hovering  shrike.  Birds,  however, 
which  have  wisdom  enough  to  stay  in  the  bush  and  trust  to 
its  shelter  rather  than  to  launch  out  into  open  flight,  are  more 
than  apt  to  escape  with  their  lives.  In  February  last  I  saw  two 
shrike-pursued  English  sparrows  take  to  the  cover  of  a  vine- 
covered  lilac  shrub.  They  sought  a  place  well  near  the  roots. 
While  flying  they  had  shown  every  symptom  of  fear  and  were 
making  a  better  pace  than  I  had  ever  seen  one  of  their  tribe 
make  before.  The  shrike  brought  itself  up  sharply  in  midair 
directly  over  the  lilac,  and  there  it  hovered  on  light  wing  and 


G.  N.  Shrike,  Butcher  145 

looked  longingly  downward  through  the  interlacing  stems  at 
the  sparrows.  It  paid  no  heed  to  its  human  observer  who 
was  standing  within  a  few  feet  and  who,  to  his  amazement, 
saw  an  utter  absence  of  any  appearance  of  fear  on  the  part  of 
the  sparrows.  They  apparently  knew  that  the  shrike  could 
not  strike  them  down  because  of  the  intervening  branches. 
They  must  have  known  also  that  owing  to  the  comparative 
clumsiness  of  their  pursuer  when  making  its  way  on  foot 
through  and  along  twigs  and  limbs,  they  could  easily  elude 
him  if  he  made  an  attempt  at  capture  after  that  manner. 
Finally  the  shrike  forsook  the  tip  of  the  lilac  and  began 
working  its  way  downward  along  the  outer  edge  of  the  shrub. 
When  it  had  approached  to  a  point  as  near  as  the  sparrows 
thought  was  comfortable,  they  shifted  their  position  in  the 
bush.  The  shrike  saw  that  the  quest  was  useless  unless  he 
could  start  them  to  flight.  He  tried  it,  but  they  were  too 
cunning  for  him,  and  he  at  last  gave  up  the  chase,  the  pro- 
gress of  which  actually  seemed  to  humiliate  him.  He  flew 
afar  off,  where  perhaps  the  prospects  of  dinner  were  better. 
I  once  saw  a  goldfinch  in  winter  plumage  escape  a  great 
northern  shrike  by  taking  a  flight  directly  at  the  zenith. 
The  shrike  followed  the  dainty  little  tidbit  far  up,  until  the 
larger  bird  was  only  a  speck  and  the  little  one  had  disappeared 
entirely.  The  shrike  apparently  could  neither  stand  the  pace 
nor  the  altitude,  and  the  watchers,  with  whom  the  goldfinch 
was  the  favorite  in  the  race,  rejoiced  with  the  winner. 


INDEX 


Abbott,  Dr.,  52,  107,  121. 

Adam,  79. 

Aristotle,  63. 

Auk,  Great;  Plautus  impennis,  17. 

Beau  Brummel  of  the  Birds,  101. 
Bittern,  American;   Botaurus   lenti- 

ginosus,  14,  15,  26,  27. 
Blackbird,    Red-winged;     Agelaius 

phoeniceus,  21,    22,   44,   90,   116, 

118. 
Blackbird,  Crow;  Quiscalus  quiscula 

aeneus,  12,  38. 
Blizzard,  Snowbirds  in,  58. 
Bluebird;  Sialia  sialis,  13, 16,  40,  47, 

48,  52,  83,  114,  119,  120,  131,  135. 
Bluejay;  Cyanocitta  cristata,  37,  50, 

51,  53.  57,  73,  74,  80,  81,  82,  83,  89, 
94,  95,  96,  98,  99,  101,  135. 

Bobolink,  Albino,  24,  69. 

Bobolink;     Dolichonyx    oryzivorus, 

24,  84,  88. 
Bob-White,  131. 
Bunting,      Black-throated;       Spiza 

americana,  23,  88. 
Bunting,  Snow;  Plectrophenax  niva- 

lis,  58. 

Butcher  Bird,  n,  69. 
Buzzard,    Turkey;    Cathartes    aura, 

46,  47. 

Catbird;  Galeoscoptes  carolinensis, 

52,  53,  78,  83,  88,  101,  109,  124. 
Cedarbird;  Ampelis  cedrorum,84. 
Cemetery,    Graceland,    30,    78,    82, 

85. 

Cemetery,  Oakwoods,  78. 
Cemetery,  Rpsehill,  78,  81,  84. 
Che  wink;    Pipilo  erythrophthalmus, 

108. 

Chickens,  Brahma,  48,  49. 
Chickadee;    Parus    atricapillus,  36, 

37,  43,  44,  52,  58,  83,  142. 


Chicago,  9,  10,  12,  15,  16,  19,  23,  30, 
32,  43,  66,  69,  78,  83,  91,  115,  129, 

J39- 

Chicora,  Steamship,  Loss  of,  58. 
Church,     Presbyterian,      Highland 

Park,  loo. 

Church,  Unity,  Chicago,  84. 
Coot,  116. 
Cow-bird;  Molothrus   ater,  84,   102, 

103,  122,  123. 
Creeper,  Brown;  Certhia   familiaris 

americana,  142. 
Crow,  American;  Corvus  american- 

us,  22,  34,  40,  41,  46,  50,  68,  84,  98. 
Crow,  Rain,  137. 

Cuckoo,  Black-billed;  Coccyzus  ery- 
throphthalmus, 84. 
Cuckoo,  English,  137. 
Cuckoo,      Yellow-bilkd;     Coccyzus 

americanus,  84,  136/137. 

Deane,  Ruthven,  116,  117. 
Dickcissel;  Spiza  americana,  22. 
"Dishonor,  Century  of,"  66. 
Dove,    Mourning;     Zenaidura    ma- 

croura,  72,  84,  101,   118,    119,   135, 

136. 
Duck,   Bluebill;  Aythya  affinis,  83, 

126,  127. 

Duck,  Mallard;    Anas  boschas,  93. 
Duck,  Old  Squaw;  Clangula  hyema- 

lis,  56. 

Duck,  Teal,  93. 
Duck,  Wood;  Aix  sponsa,  17,  106. 

Eagle,  Bald;  Halisetus  leucocepha- 

lus,  13. 
Emerson,  36. 

English  Lake,  Indiana,  116. 
Eve,  79. 

Falls,  Niagara,  85. 
Farm,  The  Phillips,  88. 


148 


Index 


Fields,  In  Winter,  50. 
Flicker;  Colaptes  auratus,  83. 
Flycatchers,  131. 

Flycatcher,  Least;  Empidonax  mini- 
mus, 83. 

Fly-up-the-creek,  125. 
Fort  Sheridan,  104. 
Fowler,  W.  Warde,  63. 

Gila  Monster,  122. 

Goldfinch;  Spinus  tristis,  26,  45,  84, 

145. 
Goose,  Canada;  Branta  canadensis, 

54,  55- 
Grackle,   Bronzed;   Quiscalus  quis- 

cula  aeneus,  12,  13,  41,  78,  83. 
Grebe,      Pied-billed;      Podilymbus 

podiceps,  82. 
Grosbeak,       Cardinal;      Cardinalis 

cardinalis,  30,  31,  32,  38,  78,  79,  in, 

120. 
Grosbeak,  Evening;  Coccothraustes 

vespertinus,  79,  80,  81. 
Grosbeak,   Rose-breasted;    Zamelo- 

dia  ludoviciana,  55,  83,  101,  102. 
Grouse,  Ruffed;   Bonasa    umbellus. 

103,  104,  105. 
Gull,^  Herring;    Larus    argentatus 

Smithsonianus,  56. 

Halcyon,  10. 

Hartford,  Michigan,  60. 

Hawk,  Broad-winged;  Buteo  latissi- 

mus,  ill. 
Hawk,  Cooper's;  Accipiter  cooperi, 

65. 
Hawk,     Duck;     Falco     peregrinus 

anatum,  93. 

Hawk,  Killed  by  barbed  wire,  72. 
Hawk,  Marsh;  Circus  hudsonius,  93. 
Hawk,  Red-shouldered;  Buteo  linea- 

tus,  34. 
Hawk,  Red-tailed;  Buteo  borealis, 

48,  49. 
Hawk,     Sharp-shinned;     Accipiter 

velox,  65. 
Hawk,  Sparrow;  Falco  sparverius, 

3"5»  36- 

Heron,  Great  Blue;  Ardea  herodias, 
124,  125. 


Heron,  Green;  Ardea  virescens,  83, 

109,  125. 
Heron,  Little  Blue;  Ardea  caerulea, 

83,  109. 

Highland  Park,  20,  51,  68,  73,  102. 
Hills,  In  Southern  Hoosier,  39. 
Humming-bird,  Ruby-throated;  Tro- 

chilus  colubris,  13,  63,  84,  119. 

Illinois  Audubon  Society,  71,  79,  116. 

Indiana,  Southern,  29. 

Indigo  Bird;  Passerina  cyanea,  83. 

Inn,  Prairie,  132. 

Island,  David's,  75. 

Island,  Goat,  85. 

Island,  Willow,  10. 

Jack,  a  dog,  23. 

Jacksnipe;    Gallinago    delicata,  26, 

112,  127. 

Jackson  Park,  16. 

Junco;  Junco  hyemalis,  13,  35,  39,  57, 
65. 

Kingbird;    Tyrannus   tyrannus,    22, 

44,  83- 
Kingfisher,  Belted;    Ceryle   alcyon, 

10,  11,  71. 
Kinglet,  Golden-crowned;    Regulus 

satrapa,  62,  63. 
Kinglet,     Ruby-crowned;     Regulus 

calendula,  81. 
Kouts,  Indiana,  106,  123. 

Lake  Forest,  111.,  94. 

Lark,   Horned;    Otocoris    alpestris, 

130. 
Lark,    Meadow;    Sturnella    magna 

neglecta,  44,  84,  129. 
Lark,    Prairie     Horned;      Otocoris 

alpestris  praticola,  130. 
Lincoln  Park,  10,  n,  79,  115. 
Love,  Boy-driver's  name,  45. 

Mass'acre,  Chicago,  60. 
Mist,  Maid  of  the,  86. 
Myrtle-bird;  Dendroica  coronata,  15. 
Mockingbird;     Mimus    polyglottus, 

81. 
Mudhen;  Fulica  americana,  40. 


Index 


149 


Nuthatch,     White-breasted;      Sitta 
carolinensis,  13,  33,  36,  37,63,64. 

Orange  County,  Indiana,  37. 
Oriole,  Baltimore;  Icterus  galbula, 
16,  52,  76,  83,  88,  107,  no,  in,  120. 
Oriole,   Orchard;     Icterus    spurius, 

83,  117- 
Ovenbird;  Seiurus  aurocapillus,  71, 

84. 
Owl,  Long-eared;  Asio  wilsonianus, 

84. 
Owl,  Screech;  Megascops  asio,  84. 

Parrot,  Red  and  Gray,  70. 

Pewee,  Wood;  Contopus  virens,  81, 

82,  83,  134,  135- 
Phoebe;    Sayornis   phoebe,  83,  109, 

1 10. 

Pigeon,  Domestic,  20,  84. 

Pigeon,   Passenger;   Ectopistes  mi- 

gratorius,  17,  18. 
Plover,  Golden;  Charadrius  domini- 

cus,  106. 
Plover,  Lesser  Yellow-Legs;  Totan- 

us  flavipes,  91,  127. 
Plover,      Ring-necked;       ^gialitis 

Semipalmata,  127. 
Pokagon,  60. 
Pottawattomies,  60. 
Prairie      Chicken;      Tympanuchus 

americanus,ii3i. 
Prairie,  The  Grand,  129,  131. 

Quail;  Colinus  virginianus,  52,  131. 

Rabbit,  52,  57. 

Rail,  King;  Rallus  elegans,  91,92. 

Rails,  116. 

Ravinia,  111.,  58. 

Redbird;  Cardinalis  cardinalis,  29, 

30,  31,  32,  39,  41,  42. 
Redstart;  Setophaga  ruticilla,  57,83, 

in,  115,  118,  123. 
River,  Concord,  36. 
River,  Desplaines,  19. 
River,  Illinois,  15. 
River,  Kankakee,  106,  116. 
River,  Lost,  29,  39. 
River,  Niagara,  85. 


Robin;  Merula  migratoria,  13,  16, 
29.  3°.  31.  38,  42,  67,  78,  83,  89,  98, 
99,  100,  101,  102,  109,  117,  118,  131, 
135. 

Rose,  Wild,  88. 

Sandpiper,    Bartram's;     Bartramia 

longicauda,  91. 
Sandpiper,  Pectoral;  Tringa  macu- 

lata,  113. 
Sandpiper,     Red-backed;      Tringa 

alpina  pacifica,  127. 
Sandpiper,  Solitary;   Totanus  soli- 

tarius,  112,  120,  127. 
Sandpiper,  Spotted;  Actitis  macu- 

laria,  112,  127. 

Sapsucker;  Sphyrapicus  varius,  33. 
Shrike,    Great     Northern;     Lanius 

borealis,  11,  35,  69,  89,  139. 
Shrike,  Loggerhead;  Lanius  ludovi- 

cianus,  84,  89,  93. 
Shrikes,  Fight  of,  143. 
Skokie,  Songsters  of,  19,  50. 
Snake,  Blue-racer,  121. 
Snake,  Chocolate-colored,  122. 
Snipe,  Grass;  Tringa  maculata,  113. 
Snowbird,      Slate-colored;       Junco 

hyemalis,  29,  35,  64. 
Sparrow, Chipping;  Spizella  socialis, 

83,  101. 
Sparrow,  English;  Passer  domesti- 

cus,  13,  14,  15,  47,  48,  50,  69,  85,  89, 

139,  141,  144. 

Sparrow, Field;  Spizella  pusilla,  108. 
Sparrow,  Fox;    Passerella  iliaca,  13, 

Sparrow,  Grasshopper;   Ammodra- 

mus  savannarum  passerinus,  88. 
Sparrow,   Lark;  Chondestes  gram- 

macus,  25,  26. 
Sparrow,  Song;  Melospiza  fasciata, 

11,  12,31,75,83,85,  108,  117. 
Sparrow,  Swamp;  Melospiza  georgi- 

ana,  15. 
Sparrow,  Tree;  Spizella  monticola, 

35.  65. 
Sparrow,    Vesper;    Poocaetes    gra- 

mineus,  83,  102,  103,  115,  117. 
Spiders,  Food  for  Wrens,  134. 
Squirrel,  52. 


Index 


Stake-driver,  14. 
Stark  County,  Ind.,  116. 
Stave-splitter,  Hoosier,  33. 
Sugar-camp,  A  Search  for,  45,  46. 
Swallow,  Barn;    Chelidon    erythro- 

gaster,  23. 
Swallow,  Tree;  Tachycineta  bicolor, 

86,  106,  in,  114. 
Swift,  Chimney;  Chaetura  pelagica, 

67. 
Syringa,  88. 

Tanager,   Scarlet;  Piranga  erythro- 

melas,  16,  26,  52,  76,  79,  8 1,  84. 
Tea,  Sassafras,  48. 
Tennyson,  17. 
Tern,    Black;  Hydrochelidon  nigra 

surinamensis,  87,  90. 
Tern,  Wilson's;  Sturna  hirundo,  87. 
Texas,  Meadowlarks  in,  130. 
Thoreau,  36. 
Thrasher,    Brown;     Harporhyncus 

rufus,  52,  55,  78,  83, 108,  117,  132. 
Thrush,    Golden-crowned;    Seiurus 

aurocapillus,  71. 
Thrush,    Hermit;    Turdus    aonala- 

schkce  pallasii,  34. 
Thrush,   Louisiana  Water;  Seiurus 

motacilla,  124. 
Thrush,  Wood;  Turdus  mustelinus, 

55,78,83,  108,  113,  114,  115. 
Tip-up,  112,  121. 
Titmice,  43. 
Titmouse,    Tufted;    Parus    bicolor, 

43.  n  5- 

Torrey,  Bradford,  51. 
Towhee;    Pipilo  erythrophthalmus, 

84,  108. 

Veery;  Turdus  fuscescens,  34. 
Vireo,  Red-eyed;   Vireo  olivaceus, 

57,  83. 
Vireo,  Warbling;  Vireo  gilvus,  107. 


Vulture,    Turkey;    Cathartes    aura, 
46,  47- 

Warbler,  Black  and  White;  Mniotil- 

ta  varia,  in. 
Warbler,  Black-throated  Blue;  Den- 

droica  caerulescens,  in. 
Warbler,     Black-throated      Green; 

Dendroica  virens,  no. 
Warbler,    Cape    May;    Dendroica 

tigrina,  15. 
Warbler,      Cerulean;       Dendroica 

caerulea,  16. 
Warbler,   Maryland   Yellow-throat; 

Geothlypis  trichas,  38. 
Warbler,    Prothonotary;    Prothono- 

taria  citrea,  114,  121. 
Warbler,  Yellow;  Dendroica  aestiva, 

!6,  57,  83,  in,  118,  122,  123. 
Whip-poor-will;  Antrostomus  vocif- 

erus,  106,  107,  128. 

Woodcock;  Philohela  minor,  16,82. 
Woodpecker,      Artie      Three-toed; 

Picoides  arcticus,  62. 
Woodpecker,     Downy;     Dryobates 

pubescens,  52,  54,  61,  62. 
Woodpecker,  Hairy;  Dryobates  vil- 

losus,  61. 
Woodpecker, Red-bellied;  Melaner- 

pes  carolinus,  44,  115. 
Woodpecker,   Red-headed;   Melan- 

erpes  erythrocephalus,  42,  43,  52, 

61,  75,  76,  83. 
Woods,  Hamilton's,  51. 
Worth,  Village  of,  87. 
Wren,  House;  Troglodytes  aedon, 

83,  132,  133. 
Wren,    Long-billed    Marsh;    Cisto- 

thorus  palustris,  91. 
Wrens,  Marsh,  116,  127. 

Yellow  Throat,  Maryland;  Geothyl- 
pis  trichas,  108,  109,  117. 


